Tabula Rasa
by AintNoMeIfThereAintNoYou
Summary: Pre-series AU. 16 year old Dean is adopted by the Winchesters, escaping a life of hooking and abuse. As Dean adjusts to a life that includes a real bed, regular food, and a lovable pain-in-the-ass brother called Sam, he begins to believe he may finally have a chance at normal. But the shadows of the past are long, what will Dean do when his past comes knocking?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own them, I'm just borrowing them for a minute.

**Pairings:** Eventual Dean/OFC and Sam/Jess, though not prevalent for most of the fic

**Warnings:** non-con and prostitution (not particularly graphic). Child abuse. Nothing too bad in this chapter, just a fair bit of Dean whump.  
**Spoilers: **_Pilot _and _What is and What Should Never Be_

**Summary:** SPN pre-series AU. Dean thought his luck had been stretched as far as it was going to go when he was taken in by the Pypers, a family that only wanted him to work around the house and nothing shadier. But when the Pypers decide to kick him out, the Winchesters step in and adopt him. As Dean adjusts to a life that includes a real bed, regular food, and a lovable pain-in-the-ass brother called Sam, he begins to believe he may finally have a chance at normal. But the shadows of the past are long, what will Dean do when his past comes knocking?

**Author Notes:** Dean is 16 and Sam is 12. It's set in England (the link to canon is explained in the story), mainly because I first started with it set in the US but then found it practically impossible to write realistic school scenes. I had no clue what sort of marks were achievable, the teaching styles,how schools were set out, and it all started looking more like High School Musical than a realistic school setting so I decided to take Mark Twain's advice and write what I know.  
Also, I've had to screw around with the timeline so it's set in the present day but the boys are 16 and 12.  
It may annoy some readers at first to see two OCs with the surname Winchester, but their link back to canon will also be explained. I hope you like the OCs, I've tried to make them work for their screen time.  
There has been another canon alteration, though minor this time. A silver knife is enough to kill a djinn, no lamb's blood is needed. It was pretty unrealistic to imagine a sixteen year old and a twelve year old finding lamb's blood merely hours after finding out the supernatural exists.

I have a fair bit of this written and plan to update every week or so.

* * *

Michael Winchester looked once again at his watch and decided that forty minutes was an acceptable amount of time to wait before going to get yet another drink.

With a forced smile that hid the stiffening of his unfortunately aging limbs, he excused himself to refill his glass of orange juice. It turned out Lucas Pyper was even more boring at home than he was at work. Unfortunately, his boss's wife was no better, and Michael spotted Jane surreptitiously pinching herself a couple of times to stay awake.

As he unscrewed the cap and started to pour out the juice into the crystal glassware, Michael couldn't resist a small smile at the memory of his wife discreetly checking the living room clock as often as she could and trying to hide a yawn beneath a wide, open-mouthed, grin. They were both running a little low on sleep as Sam had had a nightmare about clowns after going out for a birthday meal at McDonalds the day before. Jane had shushed him and let him sleep next to her for the night, promising the little lad that they'd never go to the blasted fast food chain again.

There came a loud thud and a quiet 'fuck' from behind the utility room door.

That was odd. All the adults were in the living room and Sam was outside, playing with the Pyper children.

But there was definitely someone there. There was a squeak from the depression of metal springs and then silence. Michael set down the carton and went to the door.

He didn't know what he'd expected, but he certainly hadn't expected this.

Inside, on an old sofa, was a thin kid who couldn't be any older than sixteen. He had been looking down, his short, dirty blond hair barely hiding the purple lump protruding from his forehead, trying to stem the flow of blood dripping from where the metal spring sticking out of one of the cushions had torn his leg open. But the moment Michael walked in the room, his head jerked up to reveal a stoic face but bright, terrified, green eyes.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" asked Michael, at a loss for words.

The boy shook his head and pulled his knees up to his chest, sitting hunched up on the undamaged side of the couch. Now he was looking up, Michael could see five fading marks on the kid's right cheek. He was clearly not one of the Pyper kids, Lucas only ever mentioned two, so he must have sneaked in somehow.

"Who are you?" The question came out harsher than he intended it to.

The boy's back instinctively straightened, despite the slight wince, and he replied, "Dean, sir." The voice sounded gruff from disuse.

Michael moved in and sat on the arm of the couch, trying to ignore the way those wary eyes followed his every move.

"Okay, what are you doing here?" he tried again.

No answer. Just a defiant jaw and scared eyes. Michael locked his eyes onto the kid's and watched with more than just a little guilt as the jaw slackened and the kid swallowed, terror taking over and making him forfeit their little staring contest.

"What's your full name? Dean what?"

The kid, Dean, shrugged. "Just Dean, sir."

"C'mon, you've got to have a last name!" The kid shrugged again. "And you don't have to call me sir, I'm Michael."

He extended his hand with a large smile, but all Dean did was back away and his face twitched as he tried to suppress a flinch. Michael retracted his hand, the smile having turned into a grimace. He palmed the back of his neck, dreading to ask the question once again. "What are you doing here, Dean?"

The kid looked around the room, scanning the whitewashed walls, piles of old books and sheets of paper and the wrecked schoolbag in the corner. His eyes dropped and resignation washed over his face. "I live here."

Right. Okay. What?

"What do you mean? I thought Muriel and Lucas only had two kids?"

Dean let out a hitched breath as his head bobbed. Michael guessed it was supposed to be a chuckle of some sort. "Yeah."

Michael was about to continue enquiring but he could hear Lucas's voice coming from the kitchen. "Are you trying to make orange juice from scratch or something? Michael?"

"In here," called Michael.

Lucas came and stood in the doorway, a sturdy man with a confident gait, the only signs revealing his age being his slight paunch and early balding. Michael hoped his colleague would be able to explain what Dean meant by 'I live here' but as he watched the look passing between man and boy, he felt doubt creep into his mind.

Dean, as before, broke first and mumbled an apology down at the floor, before looking up again. "I-I swear, I didn't get him to come in here. He came in by himself!"

Lucas turned away from the kid and looked towards him, scaring Michael with how easily he could manipulate a glare into a smile.

"Michael, why don't we leave little Deano here and return to the living room?" Then, colder, he said to Dean, "I'll talk to you later."

Michael's boss then walked out of the room, leaving Michael with no option but to follow.

_Why is he here?_

_How did he get those bruises?_

_Why does he constantly look so damn terrified?_

Once they were back in the absurdly clean living room, sat on some rather lovely velvet cushions, Lucas leaned back and smiled.

"Sorry about him back there, he's a bit," he whistled two notes, the second being lower in pitch than the first, "mentally disturbed, as they say. Autism or something like that, always getting into fights."

Michael stayed quiet, letting Lucas feel the need to fill the silence.

"You saw the lump," continued Lucas, "on his head? From a really nasty row with Max yesterday. Kid hurts himself more than anything else really, our Max would never hurt someone like, you know, _him_."

"Of course." Michael looked back down at his drink. He was overthinking things, seeing what wasn't there. He swirled the glass and watched one ice cube chase another. "Is he your kid?"

Lucas started laughing, though at what, Michael had no idea. "Christ, no! He's adopted, we took him in two years ago. The boy had a brute of a father, we thought to give him a second chance."

See. His boss was a good guy really, it was just him being paranoid. But it was harder to lie to himself than it was to others.

_That room had looked way too much like a bedroom. But who the heck keeps a kid in the utility room?_

"Why doesn't he join the other kids outside?" He hadn't meant to ask that, but the part of him that kept wanting to check the kitchen door every few seconds had apparently taken over.

"He doesn't like company, kind of likes to spend his time alone." His boss paused and gave Michael an oddly calculating look, before continuing. "Of course, I'll suggest it to him, he could do with getting out and about a little." Mr Pyper stood up and went back into the kitchen.

Michael guessed he was expected to stay seated but he couldn't help but follow a few steps behind as Lucas went through the kitchen and stormed into the utility closet.

He stopped when he heard the terrified yelp and the thud of knees hitting the floor. Taking a few steps forward, he saw Dean trembling, head stooped, as he knelt next to the sofa and fumbled for the hem of his shirt, his fingers getting caught in a rip near the bottom.

"You made him come in here, didn't you?" Lucas hissed, "Get up and get outside."

The boy stood quickly and both of them turned to face Michael.

"Ah, I hadn't realised you'd followed me," said Michael, all flowers and rainbows once again, before turning to Dean, "go on, go join the others outside."

Michael waited until Dean was out of the kitchen door before turning to Lucas. "What's going on? It's pretty chilly outside and you just sent the kid out without a jacket."

"It's not like he'd have listened to me if I'd suggested it." Lucas let out an exasperated sigh, "You have no idea how difficult he is to handle."

Through the kitchen window he could see the kid clutching at his upper torso in a futile attempt to ward off the cold. Turning back, he stared pointedly at Michael.

"Really, he doesn't listen to anything we say, he fights constantly with the kids, and even Muriel." Lucas leaned against the kitchen countertop, the very picture of exhaustion. "Sometimes I wonder why we even took him in. We should have known that the apple never falls far from the tree."

Michael was a banker, a man of numbers. It was really starting to bother him that none of this was adding up. His boss, while a manipulative offspring of a female dog, had always seemed so fond of his children, especially his daughter, Kate. And to be fair, Dean hadn't hit him as the most social of teenagers, so maybe he really was the problem child of the family.

That still didn't explain why, in the house of a banker and a councillor, there was a child that looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in a few weeks, that had a ripped shirt and trousers that were too big for him, that felt the need to kneel when his father came in the room.

"All kids have their ups and downs, Lucas," said Michael, "And Dean doesn't seem like all that bad a kid."

"The thing's violent, lazy, and stupid to boot," Lucas let out another dramatic sigh and hung his head. "I've really been considering kicking him out, you know, to protect my family."

Michael spluttered a mouthful of orange juice onto his boss.

_And there goes my next promotion. Oh look, it's waving goodbye._

"But- but that's a kid! You can't just abandon him like that, no matter how bad he is!"

Lucas raised his eyes and his eyebrows together and fixed him with his steely glare. "Are you proposing to tell me what I can and cannot do, Winchester?"

_No._

_Say no._

_Goddammit, your job's at stake here, say no and just leave!_

"No-"

_Good._

"Yes."

_Damn._

Lucas put the glass down and spoke, his voice frighteningly cold, "He broke one of the last things that Muriel still has from her mother. He picked it up and he smashed it, right there, on those tiles. He felt no remorse for that. No, he stood there and laughed as my wife cried. So are you really going to tell me I can't kick him out if it damn well pleases me?"

"Look, I- you-" he stammered. "I'm not trying to argue with you, but please don't do that. Look, we'll look after him, just don't throw him out like that."

"You think you can handle him?" Lucas sneered.

"I don't know, but we can try."

_Crap, you haven't even spoken to Jane about this. What are you doing?_

Just as Michael was about to retract his offer, Lucas spoke. "You know what? Take him. I just want him out and if you want to take him, be my guest."

And that was it. There was no way Michael could back out without spending the rest of his life wondering whether his boss did good on his plans to kick out the kid with the sad, green eyes. Hence, selfish as ever, Michael nodded.

Besides, Dean couldn't really be all that bad, could he?

_Oh God, I hope not._


	2. Chapter 2

**Trigger warning: references to past child abuse**

* * *

"Uhm, excuse me, but could I borrow Jane for a minute?" Michael's head popped around the living room door. He'd gone in earlier to get some orange juice and seemed to have decided to settle there for good.

Jane was eternally grateful for her husband's interruption as Muriel got up to get yet more photographs from their recent holiday to Venice.

Lucas walked into the living room and joined his wife while Jane went into the kitchen, shut the door, and brushed her lips against Michael's. "I thought I'd die of boredom in there," she whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck, "You'd have to put it on my gravestone, 'Here lies Jane Winchester, died because her ears bled from hearing too much bullshit'."

She leaned in for another kiss, but Michael leaned back a little and closed his eyes. She stopped. "What's wrong? Did you kill Lucas to shut him up? Because I swear I'll help you hide the body." She grinned conspiratorially.

There was no smile in response, just a quiet sigh.

"I may or may not have just adopted a kid," he mumbled.

"What?"

"I didn't know what to do! I panicked, it just came up and there was nothi-"

Her voice rose by a few orders of magnitude as she interjected. "Oh yeah! Because these things pop up all the time! One minute you're discussing the recession, next minute, boom! You're taking in children!"

"I- just- just hear me out? Please?" Michael looked Jane in the eye, that soft, caring gaze that always broke down her walls.

"I don't want to," she said softly, the anger gone, before sighing. "Okay."

"I need you to look at this." He went over to a side door that led to the utility closet.

Jane followed him and peered inside.

She didn't know what she had expected, probably a washing machine, maybe some unopened boxes of cereal and juice cartons like they had at home, but she certainly hadn't expected this. Sure, there was a washing machine, but it was also clearly a bedroom.

"Michael," she asked, with growing horror, "who lives here?"

Michael turned and sat down on the unbroken couch cushion (right on top of a dried spattering of blood. Typical.).

"Did you know the Pypers have a son called Dean?" He asked, his voice deliberately light.

"They just have two kids, Max and Kate. Does this room belong to one of them?" she asked absentmindedly as she rifled through some notes in a tattered purple ring binder. A curly scrawl filled most of the pages bar about a week's worth of notes near the middle.

Jane recognised the clumsy, child-like, formation of each letter individually. She had been fourteen when she'd sprained her wrist badly during a hockey match. Assuming it was no more than a bruise, she had continued to try to write with it until a teacher had called her up on her slow pace.

It seemed like this kid hadn't let their wrist heal either.

"That's what I'm saying, there's another kid. Muriel and Lucas adopted him a couple of years ago, but I guess they never thought to mention him. He's called Dean and this is where he lives," he scoffed.

Jane closed the file and sat down on the arm of the sofa next to her husband. "And I'm guessing he's the one you just adopted?"

Michael closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. "Look, Jane, I don't have a clue if I'm doing the right thing here. The right thing for him or the right thing for us. Lucas says he's violent and mentally unstable, he's been thinking about kicking him out and was about to do it today. We're perfectly happy as we are and I should probably have just left it." He sighed and lifted his head. "But I talked to him, Jane, I sat with him and talked to him. And, I don't know, I just felt like he wasn't a bad kid. Just a kid who'd seen a lot of bad things. He looked so scared when he saw me, like he just wanted to hide behind the couch or something. Kids shouldn't look like that, Jane, kids should never look like that."

Jane took his hand in hers and nodded. Michael's sudden decision was starting to make sense, as Jane knew it eventually would. He never did anything rash unless there was very good reason for it.

"I mean, if he's kicked out, what's he going to do? He's too old for foster care so it'll either be squatting or a juvenile detention centre for him. We can't leave a kid to that, can we? Not when there was a chance we could have helped. So I thought it might be okay to take him in, like a trial run of sorts, and if things don't work out, we'll…" he hesitated and looked away, "we'll make alternate provisions."

"And how do you think that'll make Dean feel?" Jane asked, fire rising up within her as she let go of Michael's hand. "He's not a pair of jeans you can try before you buy. You can't take a kid into your home and then abandon them again when you decide they're too much to handle. You know that."

Michael inhaled, closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and slowly exhaled. "I know."

"If we take him in, we take him in for good, you get that, right?"

Michael, eyes still closed, nodded.

"We handle any problems that occur as a family and we raise him as our own." Jane took his hand into her own and his eyes opened at the contact. "I know you. You're generally not wrong about people. I'm sure Dean's a great kid really and we'll make sure he gets a decent chance at life."

Michael ran his thumb across her knuckles. "I love you, you know that?"

"You'd better."

* * *

Sam really regretted not bringing a book to read.

_"There's two kids your age, you can play with them."_

_Yeah, well, they're too busy in their sibling rivalry death match to talk to me, so what now, Mum?_

As he watched the shuttlecock fly over the net and Max's subsequent smash shot and victory dance, he thought about the question he was itching to ask.

_Wrong crowd._

Kate started to set up for a serve when the quiet shutting of the back door made her pause. There was some kid Sam had never seen before in a light grey shirt that reminded him of his old pyjamas, the ones he'd refused to let Mum throw away until there were nearly more holes than material. Kate and Max both looked at the boy with barely hidden contempt before continuing their match as before.

Sam continued to rock himself on the garden swing, hoping the new kid in the strange clothes would join him, but he just stood awkwardly in the corner of the patio and watched the match, shivering slightly every so often.

It was only after a whole geological period had passed and his bottom had grown roots that Sam went over to this new boy and started talking. Awkwardness could only win against boredom for so long.

"Hi, I'm Sam" he put out his hand confidently, like he'd seen his dad do whenever he met someone new.

A calloused hand gripped his lightly. "Dean."

The kid, Dean, suddenly looked down at his hand in horror. "Oh God, I'm sorry." Hi fingers flew opened and he jerked his arm back. "I can go get you some hand sanitiser, there's some inside-"

"What? No… why? Have you touched something weird?" asked Sam, rubbing his palm on his jeans.

"No, just," Dean shrugged and looked down at his fingertips, "you know."

Sam didn't really know but he didn't want to admit that so he asked his question. "What's your favourite kind of sandwich?"

Dean looked a little taken aback but that was okay, Sam was used to that response. "Uhm, I dunno," he paused and thought, his arms wrapping themselves around his stomach a little tighter, a bit like Sam did when breakfast had been small and the clock was taking too long to reach lunchtime. "I imagine a bacon, egg, sausage, cheese and ketchup sandwich would taste pretty awesome," he grinned and swallowed down some spit.

Sam's face fell and he scuffed his shoes against the patio.

"What's up? What's your favourite?" asked Dean.

"Nothing, just, my mum thinks it's weird that my favourite's a peanut butter and banana sandwich so I decided I'd find at least one other person who said it was their favourite too. I just- I just reckon, if the world has seven billion people in it, there's _got _to be _someone_ else who really likes it," he finished earnestly.

"I dunno, it sounds a little too wild, and not to mention healthy, for my tastes." Dean said, trying to stop himself from grinning.

_Oh great, someone else who thinks you're a freak._

But the anger came and went, because Sam found he kind of liked it when Dean grinned. He just looked, well, younger. Him smiling was way better than the terrified look he'd had when shaking Sam's hand, so Sam reckoned he'd be okay with Dean laughing at him, just this once.

There came a yell from the doorway that robbed the older kid of his grin in an instant.

"Boy."

* * *

Michael could almost see the maternal instincts swoop in and take over Jane as the kid, _their_ kid, shuffled inside and leaned against the kitchen worktop, the specks of maroon on his shirt standing out against the cream worktop. Her eyes softened and her balled fists went slack.

Yep. There was no way his wife would let them leave this house without taking Dean with them.

"Dean, you're going to be going home with Michael and Jane. See if you can behave a little better with them than you ever did with us."

Michael didn't think one could ever abandon a kid with quite so little emotion but apparently he'd been wrong.

Full-blown panic exploded in the kid's eyes. "Please, p-please sir, don't sell me off! I'll do better, I'll stay out of the way and just do my chores and not break anything anymore. Please! I'm sorry!" His voice started to crack as he watched Lucas remain impassive. "Is- is it because of those notes I left saying I wanted to go to college? Because I don't mean them! I don't need to go to college, I'm too dumb for it anyway, they wouldn't take an idiot like me. I know I'm stupid and lazy, but- but I can work harder, I can! Please sir, please give me another chance, please?" The question came out as a choked whisper as the desperate panic left his features, leaving merely the hollow shell of skin and bone behind.

"You know what you did." With that, Lucas turned round and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Michael and Jane with their new ward.

"Hey Dean, I'm Jane and I think you've met Michael before," said Jane, her voice strong despite her glistening eyes. "And if you want to go into further education, and you're willing to work hard for it, I'd like to see anyone try to stop you."

Dean looked up at her through his lashes, confusion making a cameo appearance in his eyes, only to be replaced by the main star of the show, resignation. "I'm too thick for college or anything like that…" his sentence trailed off as he looked longingly at the shut door.

"I refuse to believe that," said Jane. "Now why don't you go get your things and we'll set off home?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Trigger warning: references to past child abuse**

* * *

Dean's hands were shaking as he went into the utility room he'd come to think of as his bedroom and packed a carrier bag with the few things he could really call his. His eyes lingered longingly on the Walkman and the cassettes that accompanied it.

_It's one of the last warm days of autumn and the closet door is slightly ajar, allowing strains of conversation to drift in. Sir and ma'am are praising Max for the comments he's gotten on his latest assignment: a short horror story. Dean sits and listens, wondering what had made it so easy to write that story. He often did an alright job on Max's homeworks but this one had really taken the biscuit. Maybe it just boiled down to the fact that good and bad was so much easier to define while writing about the paranormal._

_He doesn't know when he drifted off, but he's startled awake by the shutting of the door. Max is stood in his room, looking strangely awkward and guilty._

_It's odd to think this is the same Max who rats him out and beats him up regularly. But Dean gets it. He did crazy things to try and please his dad too. Max has been getting nicer though, he's even given him the crusts off his sandwich at school a couple of times and he doesn't look as happy when he hits him anymore. _

_Max reaches into his pockets, pulls out a Sony Walkman from one, some cassettes from the other, and puts them down behind a pile of schoolbooks._

_ Dean doesn't know what to think. It's got to be some sort of joke._

_Yeah, that's what it is. A mildly cruel joke where he's going to wait until Dean dares to take a step towards the device, at which point he'll snatch them up again, mock him for his idiocy, and run off to tell his sister about his excellent prank._

_Except it isn't._

_"Don't tell Mum," he opens the door and turns round to meet Dean's gaze, "but thanks."  
_

_Before Dean can say anything, Max leaves._

No. There was no way he was risking it being broken at the hands of the crazy perverts that the Winchesters clearly were. No one ever took in a stray sixteen year old with good intentions.

He could just imagine it. They would take the blue and silver Walkman and smash it, and him, to pieces the moment he stepped out of line. Like his father had done with the picture.

Not that he was any better. Two days ago, he'd accidentally knocked over one of the figurines ma'am's mother had given her while cleaning. He'd instantly regretted it and he'd been replaying the scene in his head over the last couple of nights, wishing he'd been a little more careful with his stupidly fast-growing limbs. Every night, he could see the horror bloom on her face as she watched the glass shatter, knowing she'd never get that remnant of her mother back.

He'd been so, so, sorry and eventually, when the blows subsided, they seemed to have come to some sort of stalemate. He was to be on his best behaviour and not fuck anything up and Mr Pyper wouldn't do good on his promise to kick him out.

But he'd gone and screwed that up too by tripping over his own feet and drawing attention to himself while they had guests over. No wonder the Pypers had decided to sell him off. A broken machine was no more than a waste of space.

He picked up the carrier bag and walked through the kitchen and into the hallway. Mr and Mrs Winchester seemed to have been in the middle of a heated discussion with sir and ma'am, which stopped abruptly when they caught sight of him.

"What's in that bag, boy? Stealing things are we?" barked Mr Pyper.

"Sir, it's-it's just got a few clothes and my books." Dean tried his best to speak clearly, knowing how Mr Pyper hated it when he stammered, but the words just didn't seem to want to come.

"Give it to me." Sir snatched the back from his hands and turned it upside down. "Did you pay for any of these?"

Dean looked up at the Winchesters. They looked slightly horrified, probably at the threadbare state of the clothes.

_Having second thoughts about taking me in are we? Realised how disgusting I am?_

He pushed the cynical thoughts to the back of his head as he remembered he'd been asked a question. "No sir."

"Well then they're not yours."

Dean reluctantly stepped away and turned to look at the trainers he'd been wearing for the last two years. There was a large tear in one of them, his classmates found it funny to call them 'holy shoes'. He'd laugh along while his ears turned crimson.

Mrs Pyper followed his gaze and commented before he could take another step. "The shoes aren't yours either."

Dean felt his stomach drop and the familiar sensation of burning ears as he wished his new guardians didn't have to see him for the possessionless freak he was.

_Doesn't matter. God knows what kind of work these people want you for, but it can't be anything good. You dare be fooled by their talk of college, you fucking dare. People don't do good things for screwed up little shits like you for no reason, only an idiot would believe otherwise._

The lady, Jane, seemed to get really angry at this and Dean only caught "I'm taking these shoes and I'd like to see you try to stop me" before he made a quick dash outside, eager to get out of the house before anyone decided to take their anger out on his skin.

He walked over to the Impala, admiring the sleek shape and the contrast between the black body and the chrome linings. It was much nicer than the car the Pypers owned, a white Ford Focus that Dean was always made to sit in the trunk of.

Unsure of himself, he hovered near the boot of the car, waiting for someone to open it up so he could slot himself in. He didn't have to wait too long. Mrs Winchester came storming out of the house and her husband followed soon after. She yanked the back door open and asked Sam to shuffle over to make room from Dean.

Hesitantly, Dean slid into the seat, feeling far too dirty for these clean leather seats and the bright smile on the kid sat next to him.

* * *

Sam had been burning to ask why Dean was coming with him all the way home but he'd sensed it wasn't the right time from the way both his parents' faces were pulled in a grimace. Dean had been sat next to him, huddled against the car door, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. It had been a tense, silent, ride home.

When they arrived at their house, Sam jumped out of the car and asked his Mum for the keys. He liked to be the one who opened the door, the one who stepped into the familiar comfort of their home first. Sam ran past the well-tended garden, in bloom with fragrant freesia, and onto the porch, where he fumbled with the keys. Having found the right one, he turned the handle and stepped in.

Only then did he remember their guest. He still wanted a reason for his presence (not that he minded, he found Dean quite cool, actually). Turning to watch the young man walk up the garden path behind his parents, Sam noticed the way he leaned slightly on his right leg, keeping it on the ground for longer than the left. Sam remembered when he'd last limped like that. It was when he'd sprained his ankle, he'd found it hard to walk for weeks and moaned the whole way through.

Dean's face betrayed nothing at all.

* * *

Dean studiously ignored the hazel set of eyes watching him from the doorway as he made his way up the garden. The place seemed nice, the modesty of the suburban three-bedroom house felt pleasant after the large, intimidating estate the Pypers had owned.

He stopped short when he caught sight of the metal rung at about waist height on the wall and the thick, black coil and lock that snaked around it.

Had they already known he was coming?

Mrs Winchester seemed to hear his footsteps stop. She stood, following his gaze as sir and Sam proceeded to enter the house.

"You know, you don't really have to chain me up or anything. I'm not actually violent and I won't hit back if you hurt me," he bit his lip. He could imagine the cold, miserable, winter nights already. "I'll work hard and won't take up much room. Please don't tie me up outside." He knew the words were futile but he couldn't stop them from slipping out anyway.

He looked up through his lashes to see Mrs Winchester's light brown eyes looking back at him in utter horror. He looked back down at the ground, ashamed, before risking another glance up. The shock had receded and something softer, and eternally sadder, had taken its place.

"That bicycle lock is a relic of Michael's cycling fad, that's all. The bike was barely getting used so we sold it off but I guess we never got rid of the chain."

Dean nodded uncertainly. Well, maybe they'd suddenly find it had been a good move to keep the lock. After all, delinquents can't cause trouble when they can barely move.

"Let's get inside. I need to just make some food quickly and then we have a lot to discuss." She offered her hand and he slowly reached out to take it, pulling back at the last instant as his tips of his fingers brushed against the warmth of her palm.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't trust her, not like he trusted the Pypers, not like he'd trusted his father. But as he watched as she pulled her arm back in with hurt eyes and felt the warmth dissipate from his fingertips, he wondered if maybe there would someday be people he could hold on to forever.

_Bullshit. They'll always leave you. They always do._

* * *

Michael knew from the looks he was getting from his son that he'd need to do some explaining soon.

He ushered Sam into the conservatory and sat him down. Knowing no easy way to start, he dived in. "Dean's going to be living with us from now on."

Sam looked confused. "But what about Mr and Mrs Pyper?"

"Well, they didn't really want him anymore. We felt we should help him out, no kid deserves to be thrown out like that." Michael looked at Sam pleadingly, hoping there wouldn't be too many awkward questions. Seeing his serious nod, he continued. "Dean might seem a little different at first but I need you to persevere and help him. Do you think you could do that for me, Sam?"

Sam nodded again. "Persevere means to keep trying until things work out, right?"

It was Michael's turn to nod. Maybe this would work out more smoothly than expected. He'd been worried about Sam not wanting a sibling, not wanting another kid in the house. However, now he thought about it, Sam had always been a little lonely, though he tried his best to hide it behind books. Maybe this would be good for both the children in the house.

"Dean stuck with me even when I started asking him my sandwiches question. So yeah, I'll persevere with Dean." Sam smiled at his father and Michael felt proud of having raised such an understanding son.

He was heading to the door when Sam piped up again. "I think Dean might have hurt his leg. He's limping a lot, like I did when I'd twisted my ankle."

Michael turned back to the floppy haired kid and gave him a quick smile. "Alright champ, I'll look into it, thanks for telling me."

Sam grinned back and bounced out and up the stairs, probably back to the laptop he'd received yesterday for his birthday. Meanwhile, Michael steeled himself for what was clearly going to be a far more challenging conversation with his other son.

* * *

**Author Note: **I was writing a chapter for later and I thought I could do with mentioning this.

Dean will be intelligent in this story, and will do pretty well in school. He won't be book-obsessed by any means and he'll still love the things we see he loves in the show, but he won't exactly be the don't-give-a-damn-about-school sort of Dean we see in After School Special (though, once again, I will explain in the story why this is).

I don't think this is out of character in any way seen as in the show we see he's built an EMF meter out of a Walkman, he's capable of doing solo hunts (which would include the research), in It's a Terrible Life he's even got one of the top posts in a company as a result of a more stable home life and a proper education, and he can remember so many quotes and make such a multitude of references, I reckon he'd definitely have flourished given the opportunity to do so.


	4. Chapter 4

**Trigger warning: references to past child abuse and rape**

* * *

Dean looked around the living room, liking it more than the Pyper living room already. There was a light smattering of dust and there were a couple of copies of National Geographic and Time lying around.

_It looks like people actually live here, that's what it is._

It felt far more inviting than the pristine, showroom-like, immaculate room in his old home that had held the term _living room _despite not looking lived in at all.

While Dean deliberated for a while on whether he could risk sitting on the couch or not, he found his hands itching to straighten the cushions. At his last home, the sofa had been decorated with a set of green, velvet, cushions from Paris (Dean used to love running his fingers over them, the smooth velvet felt too good to sit on). Mrs Pyper used to get really pissed if the cushions weren't aligned. A shudder raced down his spine at the memory of a belt landing along the length of his vertebrae.

_Definitely not worth risking sitting down._

A few minutes later, Mr Winchester came out.

"Dean, would you mind taking a seat and taking your trousers off so I can have a look at your leg?" he asked with a smile. "And while you're at it, do you think you could remove your shirt too? There's some blood on it and I think that needs to be checked."

No. No no no. No _way _was this happening again. He'd been a damn fool. There had been the perfect opportunity to make a run for it when they'd parked up and he'd left it. He really didn't know if he could go through with this again.

He felt himself back up slowly against the plasma screen TV. Feeling it against his fingers, he moved to the side where the door was, hoping there may still be a chance he could still escape. One hand snaked its way into his pocket, feeling the smooth metal underneath his thumb, pressing down to feel the blunt pain. He gripped the cool metal tight, willing himself to keep breathing.

"Dean? What's wrong?" Mr Winchester looked genuinely confused.

_What's wrong? What's wrong with _me_? What's wrong with _you, _you sick fuck! You've got a wife and son! I bet you've never got him to take his trousers off and spread his legs!_

"Stay the hell back." he said with as much courage as he could muster. That didn't really help the situation as Mrs Winchester came out to see what the commotion was.

_Awesome. An audience. Just what the doctor fucking ordered._

It was no use. He could fight it but a lack of cooperation simply leading to rougher handling and less lube. And that was the last thing he needed after spending two years out of the ring.

He felt all resistance drain out of him as he reached for the waistband of his trousers. Nonetheless, even as he snaked his hands down, he could feel Sam's mum's gaze on him.

He stepped out of the jeans and willed his voice not to break. "Alright, where do you want me?" Sir gestured towards the couch. Dean went over and lay down before mumbling into the armrest, "Does your wife really have to watch as you fuck me?"

* * *

Jane stared numbly at the cut on the boy's calf and the monstrosity of a bruise covering a fair part of his right thigh, trying to think of anything but what the kid had just said.

"What?" said Michael, dumbly.

"Nothing," said Dean, as he buried his head in the armrest again.

The adults continued to stare in horrified silence. Dean popped his head up again. "Any chance I could have some lube?"

Michael broke his trance first. "Dean, I- we- wh-what do you mean? Do you seriously think I'd-"

Dean cringed and shuffled into himself on the sofa. "I'm sorry, I'll be fine without lube. Sorry to ask."

"Christ! I-I didn't mean it like that, really, I swear on Jane and Sam's lives! I'd just wanted to see what was making you limp to work out whether we'd need to go to the doctors about it or not."

The kid, _her _kid, sat up slowly and looked at them both, his eyes filled with suspicion. "Really? You didn't just bring me here to turn tricks?"

"No! God no! What made you think that?" asked Jane, doing her best to keep the horror out of her voice.

"Sir told me to take off my clothes so I thought-" he stopped, blushing.

"We don't want you to do anything like that and we're really sorry that you've ever had to," said Michael, his voice on the verge of breaking.

Lucas Pyper was going to burn in Hell once Jane was done with him.

Dean shrugged and hope seemed to flit momentarily across his face. "So you're like the Pypers then? You just want me to do the chores and make sure all the housework's done? I'm a bit stupid but I can do that. I'm good at that."

Okay, fair enough, she hadn't just been sat in the house of a child molester, but that didn't stop Jane's heart from breaking. It was never going to be a clogged artery or too much salt that would kill her, it would be that eager grin and that cheerful, slightly desperate, voice. She went over, suppressing the jolt of sadness in her stomach at the way the kid flinched at her approach, and sat down.

"We didn't bring you here for that." Michael came over and knelt by her side. "Dean, I've heard you're violent, lazy, unstable and stupid." The boy started to shake his head before stopping suddenly. "But I don't think that's true and I want to hear your side of it. Why don't _you_ tell us about Dean?"

Dean glanced up and mumbled, "What do you want to know?"

"Anything you feel comfortable telling us."

An awkward silence settled on the trio, the adults watching the kid size them up. Finally, with the quickest eye roll Jane had ever seen, Dean coughed and said, "Uh, I like Led Zep and I'm kind of good at maths."

"Alright, that's great, I'm a maths teacher and I like Led Zeppelin too," said Jane, "Which song's your favourite?"

"I dunno, it's a tie between Ramble On and Travelling Riverside Blues I guess," Dean shrugged.

Jane was about to reply with her favourites but Michael, who had been staring at Dean's shirt for a while, got in there first. "Dean, do you think we could have a look at your back once, I'm just a little scared of the blood that's on your shirt."

With great reluctance, Dean lifted the old, grey shirt over his head. Jane held back a gasp while her eyes widened as she took in the battered body. The sixteen year old's chest was covered in patches of dark blue bruises, each with a clear centre where the hits had landed.

Dean smiled weakly at their gawking. "I hear pictures last longer."

Jane leaned over and gave him a hug, ignoring the way he pulled away weakly. As her arms wrapped round the skinny kid, her hands fell on his back on what were (_oh god oh god oh god)_ clear welts.

"Dean? Can we see your back?" said Jane, dreading what else the boy may be hiding.

Dean turned to reveal a crosshatch of thin white scars covering the expanse of his back with a handful of larger welts on top of them.

Jane swallowed down bile. "Could we ask how you got these?" She meant to gesture only towards the injuries but found that that was practically the same as waving her hand up and down his body.

Michael's eyes grew dark at the lack of a reply. "Did that Pyper son of a bitch do this to you?"

"Just the newer stuff, the white ones are from when I was with my dad." Then, in an attempt at a cheerier, reassuring, tone, he added, "The Pypers were never that mean to me, most of their stuff probably won't leave permanent scars."

Jane felt tears of frustration build up. She should be the one doing the comforting here.

"How long ago did you get that last set of marks?" asked Michael.

"Yesterday. It was sort of a continuation of my punishment from Thursday for breaking ma'am's mum's glass ornament." Dean shrugged. Jane found his acceptance of his fate quite maddening.

"And that?" He gestured towards the black bruise on his leg.

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to us, Dean. If Sam was hurt, we'd want to know what happened, so it's the same with you."

The only reply was a stony glare and silence.

Jane knelt next to the boy on the couch, "All we want to do is help, Dean. I promise."

"I don't think you even know the kid you're trying to help," he muttered. "This one's from the day before yesterday, because I did something really bad."

"What did you do?" whispered Jane, eyes wide.

He looked at the empty fireplace and started to speak quietly. "Ma'am was crying because I'd knocked over the figurine and Kate hated to see her mum cry, which I get," he sighed and shifted his feet, "So she got a frying pan out and told me to stand still. I could see her arm swing back, aiming for my face, and- an' I chickened out and dodged it. She got really mad and went to try again but luckily Mr Pyper came in and told her the head was off limits. So she swung at my leg, over and over, until I couldn't stand anymore."

He turned back to Jane and Michael, that heartbreakingly earnest look on his face again. "I get I was bad and that's why the Pypers didn't want me anymore, and I get that you'll probably have to kick me out sooner or later after I screw up. But I can really work hard and do anything you want me to, really."

Jane hated to admit it, but it scared her a little how easily the kid flickered from defiance to obedience.

Michael leaned forward and took the kid's hands into his own, ignoring the slight recoil. "We just want you to try your best and work hard in school and have a chance at making the most of your life. We want nothing more than for a bright, lovely, kid like you to have a place they can call home. Somewhere they know they'll be cared for, no matter what." He let go as those green eyes started brimming and the tears threatened to spill. "I think we'll need a visit to the doctor's tomorrow."

"Don't bother, the ribs aren't broken. I checked to see if they were cracked and they're fine." he said gruffly, demonstrating how he checked by gliding his fingers over his ribs, pressing down lightly while clenching his teeth against the pain. "See sir, they're not broken."

"I believe you son, I really do. I just still think it'd be good if the doctor could give you some painkillers."

Looking down, Dean sniffled before replying quietly, "But I don't have any money to buy painkillers."

Jane wanted to get into the car and go hit every single person that had made Dean pay for necessities in his short life.

"We'd never dream of making either of our sons pay," she said, meeting Dean's puzzled gaze. "I mean it. We'll get the adoption papers sorted out tomorrow."

She didn't think her heart could hurt any more than it already did, but watching the suspicion, disbelief, fear and, ultimately, the slightest flicker of trust dance in his eyes as he wiped away tears and gave a weak nod proved her wrong.

"And Dean, we need you to tell us if you're hurt anywhere else or if you need anything," said Michael.

"I'm fine, sir." The trust was gone, replaced by the protective wall the kid could hide behind.

Michael knelt next to the arm of the couch. "Why are you scared of us, Dean?"

Dean let out a shaky breath. "I'm not stupid. I know you'll kick me out if you think I'm too weak to work," he whispered.

"I gave my word to you Dean, we'll treat you as family, we want you to be happy and fulfill your dreams. We didn't bring you here to work."

"Okay," said Dean, his answer too quick to be anything more than appeasement. He reached over for his shirt and started pulling it on. Jane watched the scarred, wounded, skin disappear underneath dull grey and wondered how many times Dean had been hurt badly and had just suffered through it when he really needed to see a doctor. She found she didn't really want to think about it. Dean had noticed her staring and said, "I know you don't believe me, but I promise you I don't have any infections. I won't spread anything to Sam."

"It's not like that, we'd not kick you out even if you did." said Jane.

Dean's all-too-quick nod did little to mask his doubt. Jane knew that doubt would take a long time in going.

_Shit._

She remembered the soup tins she had opened and then abandoned. They'd left the Pyper household without eating dinner, it was a wonder Sam wasn't down already complaining about how he was _starving_ and he might _die_ any second without food.

"Well, I had better go make dinner, I'm guessing you're hungry by now?"

"I'm fine ma'am."

Looking at his skeletal figure, she decided to ask a more objective question. "When did you last eat, honey?"

Dean thought for a moment. "Uhh, I've been banned from food since I broke the figurine… so I guess that means since breakfast on Thursday."

Jane froze as she realised Dean would never admit he was anything but fine. It didn't matter that you hadn't eaten for over two days and had bruises the size of the Grand Canyon, you showed nothing and said you were fine. She felt a lump rise up in her throat.

"Is there anything you're allergic to?"

Dean shook his head. Jane wasn't sure if that was completely true of if he'd just said that to not anger her. She decided to leave it for the moment.

"Michael, come give me a hand in the kitchen, let's give Dean some peace."

With that, Jane strode into the kitchen, trying to think of anything but the criss-cross of white lines with the angry red welts on top.


	5. Chapter 5

**Trigger warning: references to past child abuse**

* * *

Dean sat back and closed his eyes, willing his mind to think anything but the same, dangerous thought over and over again.

_These people don't seem half bad._

Nuh uh, he'd made that mistake already, he wasn't going to repeat it.

When he'd been fourteen, his father had once gotten really mad and snapped his arm. The bone had been sticking out and even the hardened Dean Hall hadn't been able to keep in the sobs of pain. Not willing to lose his investment, his father had rushed him to the emergency department where the staff had first started suspecting neglect and abuse.

Rex Hall had put on an act alright. He had sobbed and shouted and pleaded- anything to keep his poor, darling baby. The doctor, a gentle old man who'd been the first person to touch Dean in kindness in fourteen years, had left the police out of the equation and just delivered Dean to the social services.

The social services lady had made many promises to him. She'd told him he'd be placed with a nice family, he'd be allowed to play with children his own age, no one would ever lay a hand on him again. They had all been lies.

Dean didn't blame her in any way. He'd been the one that was stupid enough to think maybe he deserved love. He had allowed himself to believe he could be like the kids he went to school with. Stupid, gullible, fourteen year old Dean had walked into the Pyper household with a head full of dreams of having a brother and sister called Max and Kate, of having a mum and dad called Muriel and Lucas.

The first day was the hardest. He remembered every single line that had killed another part of him that still dared to hope.

_Why did you get out five desserts? Put one back.  
_

_Get off that chair, you sit on the floor when you eat._

_I'll spare you the belt today, but from now on, if I ever hear the word 'dad' instead of 'sir' from you again, I'll be less generous._

_What are you stood there for, boy? The dishes won't wash themselves._

Still, things had been pretty good. He got to sleep on the couch rather than on the floor. He was allowed to wear Max's castoffs (which were in better shape than anything Dean had been used to wearing). He even got to eat about once a day as long as he behaved and when he didn't, the beatings were bad but only once or twice a week. But best of all, no one ever touched him like his father's friends had. He almost believed he could be clean again.

_Almost. Not being touched was never enough to stop the nightmares._

He didn't think those would ever leave.

Slowly feeling himself drifting off, he shook himself awake. He didn't know of he was allowed to sleep yet and he sure as hell wasn't risking in here, in an unknown place. Mrs Pyper used to get pretty fucking furious if he fell asleep without doing the dishes and Kate and Max's homework first.

_But Sam seems so different to the Pyper kids and Mr and Mrs Winchester will even pay to go to the doctor. Maybe... Just maybe..._

To stop himself from getting hopeful, Dean thought about the books he'd left behind. As he started to mentally form a list, Sam walked in and sat down on the sofa, turning on the TV to flick through channels.

"What would you like to watch?" asked Sam. God, he really was so different to Kate, who'd have told him to get off the couch by now.

"Uhh, not really watched much TV." An understatement if there ever was one. His father hadn't even owned a TV and the only chances in the Pyper household were by peering round the doorway while vacuuming or scrubbing the kitchen. He'd heard a lot about it in school so he did know the names of most superheroes and the odd TV character. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to get to see something he'd only really heard about, he asked for the show that got mentioned most. "Is The Simpsons on?"

"You like The Simpsons? I _love _The Simpsons! I want to be like Bart but really I think I'm more like Lisa," he finished sheepishly and Dean nodded along, feeling warm inside at being spoken to like that.

One would think he was almost human.

Sam turned on The Simpsons and Dean was surprised to find it was a cartoon filled with yellow people. He wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Who's your favourite character?" asked Sam, as he edged towards him on the couch.

He found himself smiling at being asked his opinion. Then, slowly, the smile faded as he realised he didn't have a clue what the characters were like. He also found he didn't want Sam to know how limited his knowledge on such matters was.

"I like Bart, you?" replied Dean, feeling it was a safe bet seen as Sam wanted to be like Bart.

"Yeah, Bart's cool!" He grinned again as he did a bad impression of the yellow guy with the spiky hair onscreen. "'Eat my shorts!'"

Dean grinned and did an even worse impression back, saying the last line that had just been said. "'Ay caramba!'"

"Wow man, I thought I was bad!"

"Oh you are, midget!" Dean replied easily, then remembered who he was talking to. It was so easy to forget this was the son of the couple who, for all intents and purposes, now owned him. He felt unnervingly free with him, which was never a good thing.

"I'm sorry" said Dean, looking down and fiddling with his hands.

"What are you sorry about?"

"Shouldn't have called you midget. Your impression was very good" he answered gruffly. He sat and waited for the repercussions.

None came.

"Hey man, it's fine, I called your impression bad, you called mine bad, it's totally cool, no need to apologise."

Dean smiled and decided he could allow himself just a little bit of hope.

* * *

Jane couldn't help but watch the guarded way Dean ate, quietly but quickly, as if scared that if he drew attention to himself the food might be taken away. His bowl was quickly finished and polished with the bread.

When the Winchesters sat down for dinner, Dean had just stood at the side and stared with badly hidden longing at the simple bread and tomato soup on the table. She invited him over. He came and sat on the floor. Holding back tears, she told him it was alright for him to sit at the table. His awkward grin and sad attempt to hide his embarrassment had cut deep.

_'I tend to be the one cleaning furniture, not the one using it.'_

Sam finished his bowl and got some seconds. Dean's eyes followed his hands as he got some more food, his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"Would you like some more, Dean?

"N-no thank you ma'am. You guys should take however much you want and- and I could maybe have what's left over. Maybe. I mean, it's fine if you just want to throw it away, I don't need to eat any more-"

Jane shushed him and ladled out another bowlful before his rambling broke her already shattered heart any further. Dean murmured something to himself.

"Sorry dear, I didn't catch that."

Dean blushed. "I was just saying to myself the food tastes better when it's warm."

Jane pushed the bowl towards him, wondering how many more revelations she could take. "How long as it been since you last had warm food?"

"Two years, I got to have some fish cakes and mash at the group home."

Jane nodded and asked another question even if she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer. "What are you used to eating?"

"Leftovers from after the Pypers have eaten." he paused, then added quietly, with a small grin, "It was great when Muriel or Kate went on a diet, meant there was more for me."

Jane smiled back but her heart wasn't in it, her heart was busy currently fighting a battle with the brain about leaning over the table and hugging Dean. The brain won and Jane settled for just saying, "Well, you can eat as much as you want here as long as it's healthy food."

Dean nodded and returned to his soup. Jane was relieved to see he wasn't guarding it as heavily now.

Half an hour later, Michael was doing the washing up, having hurried Dean out of the kitchen when he'd come in to do it. Jane puttered around, clearing the table and surreptitiously tidying things as she went along, not wanting her home to look messy for their guest.

_Not guest, member of the family now._

"You boys need to go brush your teeth, I think it's time for bed. Sam, give Dean a new toothbrush and show him where the bathroom is, will you?"

Seeing the hesitation in Dean's face, she asked, "What's wrong, Dean? Still feeling a little out of it?"

"No ma'am, it's just that I don't have the money to pay for a new toothbrush. I can use a discarded one if you've got any?"

Jane found she didn't really have the words to reply to that. Thankfully, Michael took over.

"You don't have to pay for anything, I promise. We earn more than enough to support another kid and we genuinely want to do this because you're a good kid, Dean."

Hope and disbelief battled in his eyes once again, but he settled for a nod and walked up the stairs with Sam. Jane started cleaning the remnants of soup from around the stove as Michael washed the dishes.

"We haven't gotten in over our heads, have we?" asked Jane.

"I-I don't know. I just think about the lies that Lucas fed me, the fact I'd even considered them… Heck, I don't even know how I'll face that bastard in work on Monday." It was rare to hear Michael swear, Jane was the swearer in the couple.

"You can't let him get to you, you really mustn't. You've worked too hard to get to where you are to throw it all away. Besides, we've got another kid now and we've said he'll be raised like Sam. We've got to be practical as well, I guess."

"I know, I know, I'll keep my distance. But I apologise in advance for my fist accidentally slipping and connecting with his nose."

Jane smiled, knowing her husband to be better at keeping a cool head than she'd ever been. If it had been her who had to go into work with Lucas after knowing what she knew now, she'd not get through a day without an arrest warrant being issued in her name.

"It's not going to be easy, but he'll learn to trust us. As I said to Sam, we have to persevere with him." Michael said as he dried the last dish.

And they would. Because that kid, with the bright green eyes and defense-mechanism humour, would always be worth it.

* * *

Sam watched as Dean reluctantly squeezed some toothpaste out of the tube.

"Are you sure your parents won't mind?"

"One hundred percent. By the way, do you know why we use the word 'percent'?" Sam ploughed on without waiting for an answer, eager to tell the older boy about what he'd read recently, "It's because per means 'for every' and cent is Latin for 'one hundred' so percent means 'for every one hundred'. Cool isn't it?"

Dean returned Sam's smile and asked, "You're into maths?"

"Yeah, I'm on the school mathlete team, you?"

"Yeah, it's alright I guess," replied Dean.

Conversation stopped as their mouths filled with toothpaste. It was becoming apparent that Dean was going to be pretty fun to have around. He liked maths and The Simpsons so he was clearly a pretty cool guy, Sam found he didn't even mind being called midget. There was one niggling thought at the back of his mind, but he decided to ignore it for now.

Once they were done, Dean went out to the stairs where Jane was coming up.

"Um, would it be ok if I could sleep on the couch?" he asked quietly.

"But-"

"It's fine, I can sleep on the floor, sorry to be a bother," he interjected as he blushed and ducked his head.

Sam watched, confused. Why would his Mum not let him sleep on the couch? Why would she make him sleep on the floor? That didn't sound like her at all.

"Dean, dear, I wouldn't dream of making you sleep on the floor. I was going to ask you to sleep in the guest room, would that be ok?" Sam's world righted itself again momentarily before he considered what Dean's comment said about him.

Dean nodded and grinned sheepishly. "You guys are awesome," he mumbled.

They went off into their bedrooms and Sam got into his pyjamas. He wondered what his brother was going to wear seen as he didn't seem to have brought much with him from Mr Pyper's house.

_You just thought of him as your brother. That's a bit weird._

_Then again, that's what you call another kid who lives in the same house as you and Dad said that's what Dean would be doing. _

_Doesn't really matter if you're not related._

With that thought, Sam shrugged and tried once again to shut up the little part of his mind that kept asking the same question over and over again.

_Will they stop loving you now that Dean's here?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Trigger warning: references to past child abuse and rape**

* * *

Dean jerked upright. There was light streaming into the room, a clear sign he'd overslept. Bleary eyed, he tried to get off the couch and drag himself to the kitchen to start work before anyone woke up.

Except he found he wasn't on the couch.

And there was a warm, clean blanket on him.

The events of the previous day came back to him, along with an odd feeling of cautious optimism. It had been too good to be true and yet here he was, on a proper bed with a proper blanket.

Feeling unsure of what to do, he got off the bed and made it so it looked like no one had slept in it. Sure, they'd told him to sleep in that room but it could all be a test and maybe he was still expected to sleep on the floor. Such people annoyed the hell out of him.

Tiptoeing downstairs, Dean headed into the kitchen where he could hear pans rattling.

"Hello Dean, sleep well?"

"Very well thank you, ma'am," said Dean, wondering how Mrs Winchester would react to that. He'd never really stayed with anyone who reacted positively to his happiness, so he reckoned it'd probably be a decent litmus test of how long he could last here with most of his skin intact.

It came as a pleasant surprise when Mrs Winchester smiled kindly. "Glad to hear it," she said, "and you don't have to call me ma'am all the time you know. Jane, or even Mum, would be fine." Her voice became so hopeful towards the end that Dean wondered if she was really serious about taking him on as another son.

Nevertheless, he knew he'd find it too difficult to call her by her name- it went against everything the adults he'd lived with had ever taught him. Calling her 'mum' was out of the question. He refused to get attached, just to have her betray his trust. It was plain stupid to do that.

"I might have to stick to sir and ma'am until I get used to calling you anything else, will that be okay?"

She looked like she might argue, but instead settled for, "Okay then. What do you like in your porridge?"

"Um, sugar would be nice, if you could spare any?" mumbled Dean, hoping he hadn't overstepped any boundaries to their kindness. Then again, she _had _asked what he liked.

_Doesn't mean she can't fucking beat you up for answering anyway._

Mrs Winchester had been speaking but he'd been too lost in memories of times when he'd asked for something and received something altogether more painful. "Sorry ma'am, I missed what you said." Without meaning to, he could feel his back tense in anticipation of a belt.

"No worries, I was just saying that I'll put a spoon of extra sugar in yours," she said with a wink, "and that Michael will be taking you to the doctor for a check-up." She must have seen the panic in his eyes, for she added, "Don't worry, she will be completely confidential and she won't harm you in any way."

"I've got no problem with doctors. Hell, a doctor rescued me from my father in the first place," his voice grew gravelly with bitter memories, "it's just- just I don't like getting undressed in front of others."

She stopped staring and gave him a look that was both gentle and yet sad. Dean was just thankful for the lack of condescending pity.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Dean shrugged. He didn't really want to, but he could see the masked order for what it was. The Pypers had interrogated him on his past too. He just hoped that maybe this family wouldn't use it against him in quite the same way.

"Not much to say, really. Mum died giving birth to me and Dad kinda lost himself to the grief. He beat me up because I managed to fuck up everything I tried to do. Then he found I was an easy source of cash so he started renting me out to men who wanted to sleep with ten year old boys. One day, I pissed a client off really badly. I think I might have asked him if Cialis could fix his little condition or some other stupid shit like that. The guy refused to continue and wanted his money back, dad got pissed and broke my arm. We went to the hospital and the doctor gave me to Social Services, about it really."

There. That was it. The Winchesters now knew just how dirty he was. He wondered if it was the end of the line for him now. And just as he'd started to get fond of the bed and the warm food.

"The fucking bastard," whispered Mrs Winchester.

Okay, maybe not then.

Dean fought the urge to grin. He had to admit it, Mrs Winchester was cool for swearing like that. Dean had always been punished for his runaway mouth, but finally here was an adult that was just as bad.

"Don't tell Michael I swore in front of you, ok?" she said conspiratorially with an attempt at a smile through the glistening eyes, "And I don't advise swearing in general, but yeah, I'm not going to be a hypocrite about it."

Dean let a little bit of the grin slip through. He was finding it very difficult to not trust this woman.

And if he could trust this woman, even just a little bit, then maybe he could ask for something too.

"Ma'am, do you think you could, um, maybe not tell Sam about all the stuff I told you yesterday and just now? It's just-," he paused and wrung his hands, knowing he was asking her to hide things from her real son because of his own battered pride. "Just, he seems to kind of like me and I don't want him to hate me because of this stuff."

Mrs Winchester surprised him once again. "He wouldn't hate you even if he knew, but I understand. You can tell him yourself, if you ever feel like it, but I'll never mention anything to him."

Dean looked up at those milk chocolate eyes and knew she really meant it. Eyes that lie either refuse to look at you completely or stare at you with too much effort. She did neither. Dean couldn't really explain, not even to himself, why that was so important.

All he knew was that he couldn't bear the thought of the twelve year old kid that was probably rolling out of bed right now knowing anything of his sordid past. It didn't matter that by twelve he'd already learnt to hate what he saw in the mirror, Sam was different. Sam, with his floppy hair and incredible concern over the popularity of certain sandwiches, didn't deserve to lose his innocence by knowing who he shared a house with.

"Thank you," said Dean, gruffly.

A couple of hours later, after a heavenly breakfast of warm porridge (he'd risked seconds last night but had decided as he drifted off to sleep that the novelty of a bed underneath him and a blanket on top wasn't worth losing over extra food he didn't really need. Besides, if he didn't take seconds, one of the Winchesters could have it. They were clean, honest, folk who deserved it more than a used up hooker like him.), he was bundled into the car with Mr Winchester to go see the doctor.

'Eye of the Tiger' was playing out of the speakers at they drove up to the surgery in the middle of town. Dean closed his eyes and drowned himself in the music, trying not to think about taking his clothes off in front of someone once again. All too soon, the music was switched off and Dean was forced to walk into the surgery and sit on the examination table in the doctor's room.

The surgery had a clean and friendly feel to it, the doctor a recent graduate and more than a little hot. Dean found himself feeling even more self-conscious about revealing his body to her.

_Maybe we can make a deal, I'll remove my clothes if she'll remove hers._

Knowing his attempts at crude humour were just ways for him to stall the inevitable, he forced himself back to his present situation and took off his shirt to reveal his pale, freckled, skin. The stupid bruises were as prominent as ever, though the welts were stinging much less than before, a solid night's sleep having worked its magic.

The lady, Dr Freeman, was gentle and quick.

"What were you hit with on your back?"

"A leather belt."

She nodded and scribbled.

"And the limp?"

"Repeated strikes to the right leg with the edge of a frying pan."

"How about the scars on your wrist?" Dean saw Mr Winchester tense, this hadn't been spotted the night before. Two white lines circled his left wrist. They were visible but only just, the pretty lady was clearly just as sharp as she was gorgeous (and that was saying something because God, she was _hot_). He knew what they looked like and was thoroughly ashamed of them.

"Dad used to handcuff me to the radiator when I was little while he went out. One time, he forgot to turn it off."

Dr Freeman pursed her lips and continued the examination of his chest. Satisfied that indeed, like Dean had told her earlier, none of the ribs were cracked, she asked to see his legs. Dean blushed as he revealed his boxers, hole et al.

Bless her, she pretended not to notice, but you could see the pity in her eyes. Dean had gotten good at reading eyes.

"I want you to rest your right leg as much as you can. It doesn't seem so bad that I need to burden you with crutches, but rest will do it good. I'll write you some painkillers that I want you to take if the pain gets bad. You're a strong lad, Dean, you've been through a lot. Now we just need to make you better and just put all the pain behind you." She said as Dean hopped off the table and redressed himself.

Dean wished it was that easy.

* * *

Michael looked to his left to see Dean looking stoic as ever as they stood at some traffic lights on the way home. He knew this must have been hard for the kid and the boy's resilience made him feel a certain respect for him. Nevertheless, Michael wished Dean would show his pain a little more, allow Michael to help him.

Not that he had any idea of how he could even begin to help Dean.

His fear of Michael was understandable, from what Jane had told him of their morning conversation, Michael's father had been the vilest sort of man and Lucas hadn't been all that much better. No wonder Dean thought Michael would be no different.

_'Does your wife really have to watch as you fuck me?'_

The deep, yet broken, voice played over in his head again and again as he waited for the lights to change. Seeing Dean's battered body again today hadn't been any easier, even if he'd been prepared for what was coming. The patchwork of multicoloured skin, the mammoth black one on his thigh that stood out from the rest, they all made him want to vomit and use one of Jane's choicer swears: fuckbugger.

_There were the boxers too._

That basta-nasty piece of work, Lucas, hadn't even let the little kid have new underwear. He could tell from Dean's red cheeks that the hole in his underwear was embarrassing him more than the lacerations on his body.

He thought of Sam, who'd never had to think twice about fresh underwear. That was how a kid should be, not ashamed at the doctor's because the adult responsible for him couldn't be bothered to provide him with basic necessities.

When they reached a T-junction, instead of taking the right that would lead to home, Michael took a left.

"We're going shopping."

* * *

Dean couldn't help but make a list of what the catch might be. He didn't think they were likely to hire him out to johns, seen as they seemed genuinely disgusted at the thought of whoring him out. Neither did they seem to want him for housework; every offer he'd made to do the chores had been refused.

_Maybe they just want someone to look after Sam, like a nanny or something._

If he was going to be allowed to go to college and provided for as he had been until now, he figured he could live with that catch. Hell, more than live with it, he'd embrace it with open arms.

Both men were wandering around a department store, looking comically lost. Mr Winchester had suggested they look here before they tried any of the second hand stores that Dean had gone into on instinct. He didn't really know of the existence of clothes that hadn't been worn by someone else. Even when he'd lived with his father, he'd worn tight-fitting clothes salvaged from local car boot sales.

"Uh, is anything standing out to you?"

"I'm still confused as to why I can't just wear Sam's clothes. I really can't afford any of these."

Sir gritted his teeth and Dean wondered what he'd done wrong.

"You're older and taller than him, wouldn't make sense to give you his clothes." He said with a sigh.

Dean nodded and looked at the high end, 'trendy' clothes again. "These look like the things the douchebags at school would wear."

Mr Winchester laughed and then seemed to remember himself. Suppressing a smile, he said, "Easy on the language, kid, I doubt they deserve to be called douchebags."

Dean relaxed at the fact there were no physical repercussions for his uncontrollable mouth but he thought about what sir had just said.

_Maybe they weren't the douchebags. Maybe it was just you who should have tried harder to fit in._

Of course, smelly, tattered, clothes never went down well in an upper class private school. So really, he should have expected the jibes, taunts and occasional roughhousing he faced from the kids who didn't want the likes of him in their school. But it wasn't really his fault, and the little part of him that refused to believe his own bullshit knew that that made those guys no better than douchebags.

"Are you alright, Dean? I didn't mean the telling off all that harshly, just not everybody is as easy about bad language as Jane and I are." Michael practically looked _guilty _about the minor reprimand he'd administered.

Dean found he wouldn't mind a telling off if it was always explained to him exactly why he was being chastised.

"I'm fine sir, I apologise for before."

They had arrived at the cheaper end of the shop where the generic, unbranded clothes were. Cautiously, Mr Winchester picked out a bright orange shirt. Dean grimaced.

"Yeah, you're right, this one could probably blind," said Mr Winchester sheepishly, putting the shirt back. "I'll be honest with you, I don't have a clue what I'm doing here. So why don't you have a look around and find what you like and we'll go with that?"

"You sure?"

Mr Winchester nodded. Slowly, Dean ran his hand along the rack and picked out a couple of dark blue shirts with the cheapest price tags.

"I don't know what size I am, sir."

"There are some changing rooms over there. Why don't we pick some more stuff out, some jeans and trousers too, and you can go try them all on."

"Thank you." said Dean, staring at the floor and wondering when he'd wake from this dream.

"Don't worry about it, son." Michael leaned over to ruffle his hair.

For once, Dean didn't flinch. Instead, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the hand in his hair.

_I don't know how long this is going to last, but I might as well enjoy it while it does._

* * *

**Author Note: **Liliaeth asked a really good question about why Dean was sent to an expensive private school by the Pypers. While parts of this answer will pop up later (so look away if you don't want really minor spoilers), it is never fully addressed.

Dean is fourteen when he first moves in with the Pypers. In the UK, you start your GCSEs at fourteen, the first qualifications that really mean something. Max is a couple of months younger than Dean and so they're in the same year group. I imagined that when the Pypers took in Dean, they clued onto the fact that Dean was pretty bright and if you applied pressure in the right areas (threats regarding his father) you could get the kid to do almost anything, including Max's coursework (though he wouldn't be able to sit the exams. But the coursework can still count for a fair bit of the final grade.). The Pypers, especially Lucas, have little faith in Max (which I'll explore later, he'll be popping up again) and probably wanted him to at least score highly in the coursework aspect, if not the final exams.

Plus it was probably easier for they to get him in without too much fuss if it was a school that Mr Pyper already had connections with, bearing in mind his lack of paperwork and references.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author note: **Please go to the police if you are a victim of abuse, please don't suffer in silence as Dean does.

**Trigger warning: references to past child abuse and a mention of self-harm**

* * *

"What do you mean there are no files in the name of Dean Pyper?" Jane tried to keep her voice from rising as the annoyingly polite social services lady gave the same, useless, reply.

"I understand that you've searched all your online databases, but isn't there even a paper file?"

There came a pause and Jane dared to hope again. "Hold on, I'll have a look," came the reply.

Jane held the phone away from her face and let out a sigh. Bureaucracy was going to be the death of her.

She'd been trying for the last half an hour to get through to make enquiries into adopting Dean and until now, all she had was a plateful of jack with a side helping of squat. Despite numerous record searches and being redirected and put on hold often enough for her to contemplate coming over there and doing the bloody search for them, it seemed there really was no file on Dean Pyper.

Of course, there was a part of her that wasn't surprised at all. After all, if there had been a file and regular checks, there would have been no way Dean could have been kept in the conditions he was in. Lucas Pyper was a man with a big name and a lot of money: a dangerous combination that could pull a lot of strings.

As the lady came back to tell her once again that there was nothing with that name and no one at the Pyper residence had ever adopted anyone, Jane knew she really only had one option.

Two buses, a short walk and a grumble about why they should own more than one car later, she was ringing the doorbell of the Pyper residence. There was a short pause, then the latch was opened and Muriel's head popped out, all of the pleasant smiles of yesterday having been replaced by mild hostility.

"What do you want? The kid's too much for you and you want to dump him back here? Because you know we won't take him back," she said, moving to shut the door.

Jane stepped forward, caught the door with her palm and shoved it open. The smell of chicken wafted towards them from the kitchen. "You might want to turn the gas off, there's a fair bit I need to say to you two."

Once Lucas had finally been able to leave his spreadsheets and come down and Muriel had sent Max and Kate off to their rooms, Jane began.

"You have no idea how fuc-" she stopped and took a breath, trying to stop her fists from shaking in rage, then continued, "how _angry_ I am at what I've heard over the last twenty four hours-"

"You don't believe his lies, do you?" interjected Lucas. "The boy's a delinquent, surely you didn't fall for the bullshit he spouted?"

"I saw the marks. You hit him, you starved him, you broke down his self-esteem until there was fuck all left and do you know what's the worst bit?" She advanced closer, holding his gaze long enough to see the veneer of confidence disappear and a small spark of fear ignite. "Do you know what _really _pisses me off?" she whispered, "He defends you. He thinks you gave him what he deserved and no more. In his world, you're the good guys."

Jane looked from Pyper to Pyper, hoping to see even a little bit of regret, the slightest hint of shame. She might as well have been searching for water in a desert.

She turned to Muriel and continued. "So to answer your earlier question, no, we don't want to _dump_ Dean anywhere. But what's interesting is that the foster care people are saying that there's no file for Dean, that you two never even adopted a child. Mind shedding some light on that?"

Lucas sat down on the sofa with a smirk. "I had it shredded. I _persuaded_ one of the admin staff to remove all paper and digital files on Dean's case to stop all home visits and checkups. Doesn't matter anyway, no one would have been stupid enough to taken a bastard like him in."

A second later, Jane was fisting his shirt and hauling him off the couch. "I dare you to speak of my son again like that," she breathed, "I fucking dare you."

But then she remembered her own words to Michael. She wasn't going to be a hypocrite about this. But that didn't stop half her mind from suggesting she break her promise to Dean and go to the police about these pieces of shit anyway.

_And watch him be betrayed by another person who can't keep their word?_

_You remember his eyes, you remember his voice. Have you ever heard anything so broken?_

_"Please don't. Sir, ma'am, I'll do anything, but please don't go to the police."_

_"But Dean, they need to learn their lesson, they need to know that what they did was wrong."_

_"I-I don't trust them. They'll send me back." The last sentence barely above a whisper._

_"They won't, they won't send you back to the Pypers."_

_A frantically shaking head. Wide, terrified, green eyes. "No, no, no, not to them. They-they'll- they'll…" Hitched breaths that give way to panicked wheezing. Jane and Michael on either side, guiding him onto his bed._

_"We won't, we won't, I promise," she says. "Just take a deep breath for me."_

_If she's honest, a little part of her doesn't want to hear exactly why the kid's so scared. She's afraid of what other part of her his revelations might shatter._

_Slowly, the boy stills._

Nonetheless, she might know that she'd never go to the police, but the couple in front of her didn't. Jane tended to think of herself as someone with steadfast morals, but she guessed she was willing to bend them for family. Forcing a shark-like grin, she uncurled her fist and took a step back, taking in their horrified faces.

"As you're so talented in the art of persuasion, you're going to do a little persuading for me. I know you must have the contacts to have had Dean's documents remade, so you're going to utilise them to get him a new set made in the name of Dean Winchester."

"Because you said so? Have you forgotten that your husband works under me?" blustered Lucas, having regained some of his composure.

"It seems you're the one who's forgotten that I have more than enough evidence to go to the police regarding your physical and mental abuse of a minor. If a new birth certificate and passport don't reach Michael by the end of next week, I'll go to the police. If a set of Dean's school records and references, with the name 'Winchester', don't reach him by the end of next week, I'll go to the police. If you harass my husband at work because of any of this, I'll go to the police."

She walked to the door and rested her hand on the handle, before turning round to face the abominations one last time and utter the one threat she well and truly meant. "If you hurt, or even try to contact, Dean ever again, I'll make you wish I'd gone to the police."

With that, she strode out.

* * *

Michael put down the shopping on the porch and fished out his keys. Dean had been quietly insisting on carrying the shopping but Michael had shushed him and told him the doctor had told him to rest his leg.

He'd barely managed to insert the key when the door opened from the other side.

"I couldn't reach you on your mobile, I'm guessing you'd forgotten to turn it on again?" she sighed as she moved out of the way to make room for them to squeeze in.

"We detoured for a shopping spree, I wanted to see what Rebecca Bloomwood loved so much about it."

They had ended up buying four sets of shirts and trousers, all in shades of blue, black and brown, despite Michael's light teasing about how Dean could easily work neon pink.

"These look fine," said Jane, looking over the clothes with a nod of approval. "But I need to talk to you both."

"Go on," said Michael, setting the bags down against the sofa.

"I tried to contact the Social Services regarding adopting Dean and they said they didn't have anything on him. So I paid the Pypers a visit."

Michael's eyebrows shot up. "Please tell me they're still alive."

"Relax, I did nothing-" she paused when Michael scoffed, "Okay, I may have roughed Lucas up a little. But it turns out they had him removed from the system and his file shredded."

Michael felt Dean shift beside him and heard him mutter "I could have told you that."

"You could have?" asked Jane.

"Yeah, he made the call in front of me, told me afterwards that it was so that I couldn't go crying to them if things got… difficult, now it was his way or the highway…" Dean scrunched his brow, "Okay, that sounded a lot better when he said it."

Jane swallowed and nodded, "He's now going to be delivering a new set of documents and school reports to you at work within the next week."

"How did you get him to agree to that?" asked Michael, impressed.

"I have my methods." Jane shrugged, before turning to Dean. "Do you think you could take these clothes upstairs and put them in your wardrobe?"

Dean nodded and reached for the bags, before stopping abruptly and turning to face them both. "If you need anything doing, anything at all, I'll do it for you. I can work and I can eat less…" he shrugged, "I- I just don't know how to repay you."

Michael had seen it coming. He knew there was no way the kid could accept kindness without looking for a catch or, in this case, creating a catch for himself. It was easier that than truly believing that good people existed. He wondered if it would always hurt this much to see Dean like this.

"Dean, dear, we don't expect any kind of repayment, we really don't. I know you're struggling to believe that now, but maybe, over time, you might come to see we mean it."

Doubt still marring the freckled face, Dean shrugged and carried the bags upstairs.

"What did the doctor say?" Jane asked, once they were alone.

"The bruising is pretty bad on his leg and the scars on his back will never fade. There was also something we hadn't spotted earlier. Dean's got two white scars on his wrist that I first thought were from self-harm. Turns out, his father had handcuffed him to radiators without bothering to check that they were off." Michael's voice grew bitter as he thought of all the children out there who suffered a similar fate in silence as his son had.

"Anything else?" choked Jane, blinking back tears.

"We're to give him painkillers if he's in pain and to keep the wounds clean."

"How come the sudden shopping trip?"

"When he was getting undressed, he was so embarrassed about the hole in his boxers. I just couldn't sit there and watch him feel so ashamed of himself."

His wife tilted her head and gave him a light smile. "I understand. And I've got to say, you guys did a pretty decent job."

They sat on the sofa for a while, Jane's head leaning against his chest, lost in their own thoughts about the child upstairs.

Finally, Jane spoke. "Once the school documents arrive from that Pyper bastard, we can talk to the headteacher at Moreton High about admitting Dean. I hope his grades aren't too bad, though if he was thinking about college, I'm guessing they won't be. Either way, as long as he's willing to work hard, I'm sure we'll muddle through."

Michael nodded. Jane kissed his cheek and got up to leave.

"I'm going to go make lunch, call the boys down in half an hour."

* * *

Jane heard the tinkle of broken glass and came running out of the kitchen.

Dean was stood in the centre of the living room, staring in horror at the shattered vase on the floor. At the sound of footsteps, Dean turned to face Jane, gaping.

Quickly, he knelt on the ground and pulled his shirt off over his head. Jane watched, dumbfounded, as the boy quivered, the patina of white scars and maroon welts on the arched back catching the pale light streaming in through the window.

Finally finding her tongue again, Jane said, "Don'-don't worry about the vase, Dean, accidents happen. Why did you take your shirt off?"

"Because I've done something wrong and I'm to take my punishment like a man." Dean recited through clenched teeth, both obedience and frustration radiating through his words.

"Oh God no, I'm not going to punish you! I'm jus-" Jane stopped because Dean had started glaring at her with unbridled anger. When he realised she'd seen the glare, his expressed changed back to the usual don't-give-a-damn look that Jane was growing used to.

"I know you're going to punish me, I just broke your property. If you're waiting for me to get the belt then you're gonna have to help me out, I don't know where the belt is." His voice remained casual but his eyes narrowed.

Jane picked up the shirt and came to sit next to the lightly shaking boy, handing him his possession. "Your only punishment is that you have to clear up the mess and be a little more careful next time. There'll be no hitting in this house." Dean's eyes remained narrow so Jane added, "You don't trust me at all, do you?"

There was a long pause as Dean thought through his answer.

"What would you like to hear?" he finally asked with a resigned sigh.

"The truth."

"Fine then, I don't trust you. Not as far as I can throw you and I reckon I could probably throw you a couple of inches at least."

Jane nodded, allowing herself a small, sad, smile at the scared boy's pathetic attempt at sarcasm. Of course he wouldn't trust her, it takes a while to get over the fact that everyone who was meant to look after you betrayed you in some way. She raised a hand to pat Dean's shoulder when the boy flinched.

"You said to tell you the truth! C'mon! You can't hit me for following orders!" Dean's voice filled with panic but it was his eyes that scared Jane. Green eyes that were so resigned, so accepting, that she almost wanted to shake the boy until those moss-coloured orbs filled with the indignation that ought to have been there.

_He thinks you'll hit him and now _you're_ thinking this? What kind of a monster are you?_

With that thought, she wrapped her arms around the skinny boy and pulled him into a tight hug. She knew it would probably aggravating the welts on his back but she found she didn't care.

"I'm not going to hit you, not now, not ever. I've never hit Sam and trust me, he can be a real pain in the ass. I promise I'm not angry at you for the vase," she whispered into his hair, "besides, I'd never really liked that vase anyway."

Jane felt herself fill with warmth as Dean lifted his arms to awkwardly return her embrace.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean sat on his bed and admitted to himself that when he'd said to Mrs Winchester that he didn't trust her at all, he'd been lying.

That was more what he _wished_ was the case. It was easier when he didn't trust people. He knew to be on guard and to get things right or face the consequences. While being hugged by Mrs Winchester, all he'd wanted to do was to return the hug properly_, _like the kids at primary school (back when they weren't too embarrassed to show it) hugged their mums.

No. That was a dangerous line of thought and there was no freaking way he was going to even consider going down that road. Mrs Jane Winchester wasn't his mother and she never would be.

They must just want him for something. They _must_. All Dean had to figure out was what for.

Mr Winchester had been horrified at the idea of having sex with him so that ruled out sexual deviant.

Mrs Winchester had let him have extra dinner and he suspected she would have let him have extra breakfast and lunch too if he'd have asked for it. This meant she either had no plans to starve him, or needed to fatten him up for something.

They both repeatedly promised he was a part of their family now and they didn't seem to have taken him in for the housework either. In fact, he'd only been given mowing the lawn and washing the car as his chores and every attempt at doing more had been thwarted.

But the most confounding evidence of all was the fact neither had harmed, nor let him get harmed, at all during his short stay there. He'd broken a vase, used bad language and called their son a midget. He'd be washing away blood by now if he'd been at the Pyper house. Even when he'd been picking up the broken pieces of vase, Mrs Winchester had stopped him and made him get a dustpan and brush because the shards were making his hands bleed.

Maybe it really did just boil down to watching out for Sam. He could manage that. Happily.

But what if it wasn't? What if this was just some cruel joke to see if Dean was still stupid enough to hope? What if, the moment he did something that went against their indiscernible rules, the hits came crashing down again?

_But they seem to really care. It's not like the Pypers, there are no Pan Am smiles that vanish the moment the other adults leave the room. It's different._

_And it's kinda nice._

Dean wondered if it was possible to fake so much concern.

Just in case it was, to be on the safe side, Dean decided to be as unobtrusive possible. No point in endangering the biggest chance he'd had of normalcy in the past sixteen years.

* * *

_Smartarse._

Jane sighed and crossed the 'because life is hard' written next to the question 'Why is 1 not classed as a prime number?'

There came the creak of the door and Jane looked up from her marking to see Sam's head bob around the corner.

"Mum, I don't get this question."

Jane took this opportunity to get the brothers to interact a little more.

"Why don't you ask Dean, I'm a little busy, honey, and I'm sure he'd be willing to help."

It had been a fortnight since Dean had come into the house and he was slowly becoming one of the family. Sure, he still asked to do all the housework, and sure, he hadn't taken seconds apart from his first night there, but he'd stopped kneeling at every tiny mistake and was more willing to give his true opinion on things rather than just trying to please.

Admittedly, Dean was still miles from being a normal sixteen year old, but that didn't mean progress wasn't being made.

Showers had thrown up a curve ball that Jane hadn't expected. It turned out Dean didn't think he was allowed hot water. He'd been having freezing cold showers for five days before Jane realised. Being in a hurry to get to work, she'd rushed into the shower once Dean had finished only to find the floor cold and no condensation at all. Stepping back out, she'd sat Dean down and asked if there was any reason he'd not used hot water.

_'I'm not allowed to waste my generous caregiver's money on items of personal comfort, ma'am.'_

His words had broken Jane's heart. The words were once again mechanical, a product of brainwashing, but the grim resignation as he said what he saw as the truth was what got to Jane.

When she'd corrected his mistaken understanding of how things worked in her house by telling him he was definitely allowed to use hot water and anything else he did to try and save the Winchesters money was to cease immediately, the boy had nodded and swallowed nervously.

_"I guess I'm okay to tell you that I've been sleeping on the bed rather than the floor. That's okay, right?"_

And then there had been the slow grin and the whispered 'awesome' as she'd replied with a cracked, teary, 'yeah'. A grin that made him look like a five year old that had been given all their Christmas presents early, or maybe one that had been told he had no bedtime and didn't have to eat his greens. No way did a smile like that belong on a sixteen year old's face when the cause was the allowance of the use of a bed.

Jane found herself marching out of the room before the tears spilt.

Things had gone quite smoothly apart from that. The injuries were slowly fading and pain no longer hovered in Dean's eyes whenever he leaned back while sitting down. He'd stopped clutching his chest too, though the limp was definitely still there. It seemed some underlying muscle damage had also occurred.

Sam's school said that while the paper evidence of Dean's abilities were impressive, they'd need to do some tests to confirm his place and stream him appropriately. Dean had spent the next five days studying for the tests he had on the following Monday.

The only worrying thing was the way Sam had been behaving. Sam seemed to be strangely hesitant to mix with Dean. At times his face seemed to show he had respect for the older boy, and yet he resisted any gentle nudges by Jane or Michael to bond with him. She'd need to talk to him about that.

"Hey, Sam, is anything wrong?"

The boy hesitated before sliding onto the bed and under the covers.

"What's up, honey? You've not quite been yourself lately."

Sam fiddled with the hem of blanket, avoiding looking into Jane's eyes. When the silence grew uncomfortable, he spoke with a barely comprehensible rush.

"Mum, will you not really love me now because Dean's here?"

"What on Earth gave you that idea?" said Jane, shuffling over on the bed to put an arm round her son.

The kid shrugged. "Well, you usually help me with my homework but now you're sending me away. And my friends always used to say that when a little brother or sister comes into the house, parents quickly forget about you."

"That's all rubbish, okay? When you came into my life, I didn't stop loving your Dad, did I?" The young boy shook his head. "There you go. I won't stop loving you just because you have a brother. Love's not like other things, Sam. You can give more to someone else without lessening how much you give to those you already care about."

Jane watched with a light smile as Sam tried to suppress his relief, before adding, "That also means you can love Dean without stopping loving us, Sam."

"That does make sense, I shall give it my consideration," Sam tried to sound ten years older than he actually was, but the eagerness in his eyes to be using a long word gave away his age all too obviously.

"Are you okay to go ask Dean for his help then?"

"Yeah, I feel kind of bad now, I've sort of been ignoring him because of this." Sam mumbled sheepishly.

"Well you know when you've done something wrong, you ought to apologise. I don't need to teach you that, Sam Winchester."

"Okay Mum," he leaned over and hugged her quickly, "I'll go say sorry and ask him about this question."

Her younger son slid off the side of the bed and exited to try and make peace with her older.

* * *

Sam gingerly tapped on Dean's door.

Dean opened immediately and Sam stepped into his brother's abode. The room was pretty bare. A small wardrobe took up one corner and a chest of drawers that opened up to form a work desk sat in the other. There was nothing on the walls. The only objects that gave away the fact a living, breathing, human being lived there were the few books on his bookshelf. A week ago, the boys had been taken to the bookstore to buy some books to replace the ones Dean had not been allowed to bring. Sam thought it was pretty mean of Mr Pyper to not let him keep the books seen as Dean clearly loved reading. Then again, he'd probably had a reason, adults tended to do the right things.

Nevertheless, the look of delight on Dean's face when Dad had let them buy whichever books they wanted had worried Sam a little. Those eyes filling with wonder made Sam want to take Dean book shopping every day, to make him happy like that all the time.

And that had scared him.

What if he started loving Dean and had to stop loving his parents?

Now he could see that he'd been wrong.

Wishing to make amends, he apologised abruptly, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible. "I'm sorry, Dean. I've not been very nice to you recently. I'll be nicer to you, I swear."

Dean just looked confused. "But you haven't hurt me or anything?"

"Yeah, but I was mean. Ignoring people can be mean." Dean still looked like Sam was speaking some alien language so he tried to explain himself further. "I kind of thought if I cared about you, I'd have to stop caring about my parents, and if they started loving you, they'd forget me," he finished in a mumble. "That was kinda stupid, I'm sorry."

"Well alright, enough sappy for one day," said Dean, gruffly. "You've not been bad to me at all, but if you want to be friends, I'm all up for it, midget."

Sam grinned and ambled over, plopping himself down on the older boy's bed.

"There's this maths question I don't understand," said Sam.

With that, he proceeded to explain the question. It was an algebra question, except there were both _x_s and _y_s in it and there were two equations. Two equations he had no clue what to do with.

"These are simultaneous equations. You just have to multiply both of them by numbers that make the _x_s or the _y_s the same number in both equations." Dean's normally rough voice took on a lighter tone, clearly enjoying what he was talking about. Either that or he just liked talking to Sam, though that wasn't likely. Sam knew that most people in school saw him as a bit of a geek, and even if he didn't like it, he'd come to accept that as his lot.

Sam squinted at the page, trying to work out which number he could multiply the equations by.

"I've confused you, haven't I? I'm sorry, I'm not made for this whole teaching gig," murmured Dean, staring down at his lap. "I'm crap at explaining things."

"No, no, it's just me. I can't think of one number I can multiply them both by."

"You multiply the two equations with different numbers," Dean pulled the paper onto his lap and started writing. "See, like here. You times that top one by two and the bottom by three, so they both have 6_x _there, so you can then take one away from the other." Dean continued, seeing his example to the end. While Sam was listening to the solution, he couldn't help but also notice how animated Dean had become, how some of that look of hurt and caution had left his eyes.

Sam felt pretty bad for having put some of that caution there.

Even though people often said he was pretty mature for a twelve year old, he knew he'd been pretty childish about having an older sibling. Dean might not like the same kind of music as him and he might call him midget, but he wasn't half bad at teaching maths.

_Next time I have a question I'm stuck on, I'm coming straight to him._


	9. Chapter 9

**Trigger warning: references to past child abuse and rape**

* * *

Dean sat, chewing the end of his pen, as the last couple of minutes rolled by to the end of the final exam he was sitting to gain entrance to Moreton High.

Apart from not knowing what 'obfuscating' meant, he felt it had gone alright. English wasn't his best subject but he was relatively well-read for a child his age. When both the television and the laptop are banned for you, you find other ways to entertain yourself.

Hence it wasn't the reading side he struggled with, it was the writing. He'd always struggled with getting his thoughts down onto paper, too unused to expressing himself.

_Hard to develop skills you don't use very often._

Reading over his work, Dean was sure he'd never be able to come up with elegant sentences, or fluid prose, or charming wit. His only tools were sarcasm and commas.

The bell for the end of the time rang and with a sigh, Dean put his pen down. He walked to the front and handed the invigilator his paper, the limp having all but disappeared.

* * *

Jane scrambled to the door in the dark at the sound of the scream.

It had come from Dean's room, filled with a crushing desperation to be heard. Jane ran into his room to see the young boy curled in on himself, silent tears crusading down his face.

"Please don't make me… there are three men in there… It really hurts… I don't want to… please don't make me, please, please, please…" The mumbles faded into incoherence.

Jane leaned in further, about to wake Dean up, when Dean screamed again, his head right beside her ear. The sound chilled Jane to the bone. No child should ever sound so painfully broken.

"Dean, wake up, honey." Jane nudged him gently, "You're just dreaming, please wake up, honey."

Dean woke up with a jump. The panic and fear didn't leave his features as Jane had hoped.

"It's okay, dear, I heard a scream so I came to see what was wrong, you're okay now, don't worry." Jane felt her mouth ramble on in an attempt to say anything that would lessen the terror in those eyes.

Soundlessly, Dean got off the bed and knelt, reaching for his shirt.

"Uh, sorry ma'am," he said from the ground, "I didn't realise I was yelling."

Jane pulled the thin boy back up onto the bed. "I've told you already we won't punish you like that, Dean."

"Quit with the bullshit and just hit me already!" The red-rimmed eyes widened as his own words reached his ears, "Sorry, but please just punish me. I promise not to scream and wake Sam."

_Why the heck would he want to be hit?_

"I can-I can sleep downstairs in the kitchen? You might not be able to hear me from there." he sniffled, wiping his face dry.

She felt her confusion grow along with the silence.

"I guess this is it then. I'd kinda hoped this might last, but that was stupid of me." Dean got up from the floor and walked to the door. "Do you want me going back to the Pypers or just out of the house in general?"

"What the hell are you on about?" She hadn't meant to sound so angry, but after a long day of trying to teach fractions to a bunch of snot-nosed kids, she really just needed a solid night's sleep.

Dean looked at Jane with that same tired expression he'd given her when she'd asked why he was kneeling after breaking the vase.

"Look, I'm sorry I yelled, I don't normally." Seeing the confusion still plastered across Jane's face, he continued, "I get it, it's okay. You don't want someone disturbing your sleep, I can understand. I just wish you'd just hit me a few times and give me another chance. I'll not make another sound, I promise."

Jane was about to speak when Dean continued, his voice so quiet she had to strain her ears to hear. "I really liked it here. You guys seemed to like me and even said it'd be okay for me to go to college. My bad, I guess, I was idiot enough to trust you."

Finally finding her voice, Jane said, "You're not going anywhere Dean. Why would we want you to leave? We'd like you to stay with us, really, unless you want to leave?"

"I want to leave? W-why the fuck would I want to leave? I'd do anything to stay here, I'd eat less and work around the house and stay outta the way if it meant I could stay here! It's you who wanted me to leave!"

"When did I say that?"

"Well, you refused to hit me! Mrs Pyper always said, after I'd been screaming from a nightmare, that I had to pick between being beaten by sir and being sent back to my dad. I used to get on my knees and fucking _beg _her to have me beaten," said Dean, his voice low with years of pent-up bitterness.

Jane felt rage boil up in her, her hands itching to punch the pillow on the bed. Instead, she counted to ten and slowly breathed. She needed to be strong for her son.

"This is a case of happens-in-the-Pyper-household-and-nowhere-else, dear. I won't kick you out and I'm glad you don't want to leave." She didn't add that it had killed her to hear this thin young man offering to eat less if it meant he could be kept in the house. "So forget what Muriel said, she's a bitch."

Dean snorted. "You got that one right."

"So, do you want to talk about the nightmare?"

"Not really, it was just a dream from when I was with dad."

Jane didn't press any further and instead opted to pull Dean into a hug, he readily accepted.

"You really won't get rid of me? No matter how many times I go wrong?" The boy sounded five. The tough-as-nails Dean Winchester (Jane didn't know if he'd want to take on their surname but to her it just felt right) had frightened, yet hopeful, puppy eyes that could easily match Sam's.

"We really won't. We'll just sit down and talk about what went wrong and how we can make amends, that's all. Besides, a nightmare isn't a crime, you can't help it."

Dean looked at her in disbelief so she continued. "How long have you been having them?"

"About twice a week for as long as I can remember," he said, with a nonchalant shrug. "I normally smother my face in the pillow to keep quiet."

Dean had been with their family for about three weeks now, he'd have had about six nightmares already and Jane hadn't known about any of them. She had failed as a mother.

"I know you don't trust me, but I'd like you to tell me if you have a nightmare, alright?"

Dean nodded and said the one thing that could make Jane feel like less of a failure.

"I do trust you. At least as far as I can throw you."

* * *

The next morning, Dean put on the Moreton High School uniform for the first time. The jumper was dark brown (probably _burnt umber_ or some shit like that) and came with a brown and silver tie that reminded him a little of Mr Pyper's belt. Still, it was nice to have a brand new school uniform after wearing castoffs for the last two years.

_Nevertheless, say what you will about castoffs, at least their collars didn't make you want to scratch your neck 'til your spine showed._

Dean tugged and adjusted the collar once again.

_Stupid starch._

Moreton High had called up a couple of weeks ago, saying they'd be happy to admit Dean into their school. He'd apparently scored reasonably well in all areas, with maths and physics being highlighted as especially stellar. Mr Winchester had been really proud of him. He'd convinced Mrs Winchester to give up her battle to only feed the family healthy food for one day and so they had pizza to celebrate. Dean had tried to remain stoic about the praise being showered upon him but really, he'd felt this warm glow growing inside him, which manifested itself as a light blush that Dean associated with preteen schoolgirls, not himself.

Dean adjusted the collar and tie again. The face that started back from the mirror still looked thin, but far less gaunt than he had been. Peering at his chin, Dean saw a small amount of stubble. He'd need to find something to fashion a razor out of at some point, or maybe ask sir for one of his castoffs.

"Sam! Dean! Get your butts down here or I'll drive off to work without you guys!"

_Speak of the Devil…_

Dean scrambled down the stairs, closely followed by Sam. Sam picked up a lunch box from the dining room table and walked to the door. Dean stared at his shoe, knowing there'd be no lunch for him.

_Of course you weren't idiot enough to believe you'd actually be treated like an equal, were you? Did the Pypers manage to teach you nothing?_

With a soft smile, he stood up and walked to the door, enjoying the feel of the solid walking boots beneath his feet.

"Dean, you forgot your lunch!" Mrs Winchester called from the kitchen.

"I get lunch?" he said, incredulously. Sure, they'd been feeding him while he was at home, but he didn't expect them to give him anything to eat while at school. Dean was more than capable of living on one meal a day, it was the awkward stares you got as you sat with no food in the lunch hall while everyone else ate that Dean hated.

Mrs Winchester's head popped out through the door, her face a mixture of concern and pity.

Dean didn't like being pitied.

With a cough, he walked into the dining room. "Of course I get lunch, but the question is, does it include M&Ms?"

He grinned at her, glad to see some of the pity evaporate and a warm smile take its place.

"I'm afraid not. It's chocolate spread sandwiches and fruit."

"It'll do." Dean tried to make his voice sound casual as he packed the clear plastic box into his bag, trying not to heel click from the glee that was rising up in him.

This was exactly like his dream.

Not the nightmare, the other dream he often had.

The dream he'd been having ever since he started going to school and seeing how other kids lived. The stupid pipe dream that was filled with alien concepts like a proper bedroom and a real family.

As he walked out of the house and got into the Impala, a car he had also affectionately started calling 'baby' in his mind like Mrs Winchester did, he realised he was in deep shit. Because as much as he told himself that he could walk away from these people and not feel a thing, he couldn't. It was too late. He really did care about this family with all his dirty, tainted soul.

* * *

Priya ran into the classroom in a huff.

"Sorry I'm late sir. I was coming from physics and Dr Baker wanted to speak to me."

"Take a seat, Priya," said Mr Watson as he turned back to the board.

Priya liked maths, she just wished it was taught by a more interesting teacher. Mr Watson's voice was enough to send her to sleep.

"Oi, Priya, I saved you a seat." Billy whispered as he gestured to the seat to his right, where he'd placed his folder. Most people usually stuck to the seats they'd picked at the beginning of the year, but Mohammed had recently started taking Priya's seat to piss her off.

"Thanks, budge over," said Priya as she shifted the folder and sat down. Quickly, she copied the one line she'd missed. Looking up at the board again, she noticed that the new boy was sat at the front, in the seat no one ever wanted to take because it was too near Mr-Boring-Voice.

He lesson droned on. Despite being in the top set, Priya still found maths lessons ridiculously easy. She'd read around the subject and had a clear aptitude for it. However, instead of earning her any prizes, her extra knowledge just meant Mr Watson religiously ignored her in all his lessons.

"So how many solutions do we get for this equation?" asked Mr Watson. As always, Priya put her hand up, knowing full well the teacher's eyes would skirt right over her. She also knew no one else would put their hand up. No one else really understood what was going on in the equation; Mr Watson had never been a very adept teacher. Hence, it'd just be her with her hand up and the tension would mount as Mr Watson studiously ignored her until he was practically squirming from awkwardness. Priya loved to make him squirm.

_That's what you get for pretending I don't exist._

Except today was different.

There was a new kid today. She could see the almost gleeful look in the teacher's eye, screaming 'fair game'.

"Dean? What do you think?" asked Mr Watson, jumping on the Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.

"There'd be two solutions."

_Damn! Of course, the square root would result in two solutions at the end. Besides, he'd never ask how many solutions there would be if there were just going to be one. Idiot._

Nevertheless, she peered at the boy sat at the front, who had gone back to doodling in his book again. The kid looked pretty lonely and no one ever liked being the new kid. She looked at the empty seat next to her.

Maybe it'd be nice if he filled it.

* * *

**Author Note: **In case anyone's interested, the OFC was originally inspired by Monica Geller from F.R.I.E.N.D.S and the Hindi film actress Kajol (particularly her character in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai). She kind of came about because the girls Dean ends up with tend to annoy me a tiny bit (barring maybe Cassie and, to some extent, Lisa). The Dean/OFC elements of the story will be light though, I assure you.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam sat down next to Dean with his packed lunch.

"Don't you want to be sitting with your friends, Sam?" asked Dean. Sam wondered why he'd ask something like that when he obviously looked so pleased at having the company.

"They can survive without me for one lunch."

"Thanks, midget."

"No problem, Godzilla."

Dean smiled and carried on munching through his sandwich.

"Your mum officially makes the best chocolate spread sandwich ever." Dean's comment came out broken as he tried to store as much of the sandwich as he could in his cheeks, making him look like a hamster. Dean's habit of eating quickly and stuffing everything into his face still hadn't gone. Sam found it both funny and kind of sad at the same time.

"Can I sit here?"

The girl asking was one from Dean's year, Sam had seen her receiving awards in assembly before for her endeavours in maths and the sciences. She was short (or do they prefer the term 'vertically challenged'?), with smooth, olive skin and thick, black, hair (some on her face too, Sam couldn't help but notice) that stuck up everywhere. Her voice was slightly deep for a girl and her gait a little too close to stomping to be considered effeminate.

"Sure. I didn't buy the table," said Dean, as the girl sat opposite the brothers.

"Priya."

"Dean."

"Sam."

He didn't want to be left out.

"So, Dean, you joined recently, right?"

"First day here, yeah." Dean leaned back on his seat and looked at Priya appraisingly. "Look, is there anything you want?" Dean asked, in a gruff voice that Sam had come to recognise as defensive.

"No," she said, taken aback by the venom in his voice.

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm sorry for trying to be friendly," she said bitterly, picking up her bag, "I'll go find someone else to sit with."

She strode off to a table populated with other kids from her year.

"Dean! What's wrong with you?" Sam growled at his usually kind older brother.

"What?"

"She was just being nice to you and you were pretty mean to her, dude."

"Wait, what? She genuinely just wanted to sit there?"

"Uhh, yeah. What else? She was just being nice."

Dean paused, looking at Priya's back. "Huh."

_That's all he has to say? Huh?_

He'd judged too quickly, Dean had more to say.

"Shit, man! I-I should go say sorry, I thought she'd been dared to talk to me." His voice got quieter. "I'm not exactly used to people wanting to be friendly to me."

Sam didn't really know what to say to that, so he settled for just staring at his sandwich.

* * *

Dean had screwed up and he knew it.

As much as his father and the Pypers had told him otherwise, Dean didn't really think he was generally all that rude. He sometimes didn't watch his tongue, but he never wanted to hurt anyone on purpose.

He'd been an idiot. Priya had seemed nice enough in the two classes they'd shared but as always, he'd assumed the worst.

_Not exactly your fucking fault seen as it always has been the worst._

But then again, he'd promised himself a fresh start here. That meant not looking at everything from his hypervigilant viewpoint, but rather through a normal kid's eyes.

_Not sure if you can even manage normal, whore._

Dean hated that side of his brain. The side that remained suckered to the past like a time-warping parasite. Maybe he really did need therapy like Mr Winchester kept hinting. He'd rebuffed all suggestions of the sort, but maybe he really was going crazy…

_No. Fuck that. _

Never again was he going to some pansy-assed doctor who'd sit there with half the fucking alphabet after their name and nod over and over again, pretending to know what it felt like to want to kneel every time an adult came in the room. They'd smile and they'd force him to talk, telling him it was _therapeutic _or some crap like that, and then they'd shove meds down his throat, thinking it could fix whatever had broken inside.

The one time he'd been forced to go had been a complete waste of time. The social services required it as part of his rehabilitation. He'd simply refused to talk. It was none of their damn business what his dad did to him or how he got the broken arm. After two hours of excruciating silence, the lady had leaned back in her chair with a sigh and told him he was free to go.

So when sir had suggested booking an appointment, Dean had stuck to his guns and refused to go spilling his guts to some therapist who'd never known quite how desperate hunger, pain, and lack of alternatives can make someone. And sir was weak. He was no Mr Pyper, who'd have dragged him there by the ear if he wanted him to go. He'd seen the fire in Dean's eyes and backed off, simply telling him the offer still stood, in case he wished to accept it.

Like he'd ever want to sit down and tell someone about the variety of ways in which people had had their way with him. Didn't matter if he was going crazy or not, you didn't _talk _about things to deal with them. Talking didn't change the past or _heal_ anything or whatever those headshrinkers felt it did. No, you buried the fear and hate and shame deep down and prayed it'd rot away to nothing.

* * *

The next morning, Dean boldly walked up to Priya, an apology playing on his lips. Saying sorry wasn't a new concept to him, this would just like all the other times the words had tumbled out without a moment's thought. He had it all planned out, he'd say it and walk away before she or her friends started laughing at him.

Some said it was difficult to apologise because one's pride got in the way. That certainly wouldn't be a problem for him then.

"Hey, Priya," he called.

Priya had been stood with a group of girls in the common room, different ones to the ones she'd been sat with the day before. She walked towards Dean, the confusion in her eyes slowly being replaced by steel.

"Is there anything you want?" said Priya, throwing his words back at him.

"I-I just wanted to say sorry for yesterday. I was a bag of dicks so I apologise." Dean felt his game plan fall to pieces and he found himself having a staring contest with the floor.

"True, you were." She shrugged and her tone softened, "But it takes guts to apologise so sure thing, apology accepted. Why were you so pissed anyway?"

No way was he going to tell her about his pathetic insecurities from the hellfire that had been his upbringing. He wasn't one for chick flick moments.

_Or maybe a little bit of that pride is left?_

"Uhh, I was kinda hungry. I'm like the Hulk, except it's a lack of food that sets me off," He grinned awkwardly at his own joke.

Priya grinned back. "Fair enough, I'm sort of the same."

The bell rang, signalling the start of registration.

"Well, I better go to class, sorry again about yesterday," said Dean, picking up his bag.

"Don't mention it, it's forgotten," said Priya, "and Dean, in maths, there's usually a spare seat on my right, feel free to take it if you ever grow bored of Mr Watson's company, as fascinating as the man may be."

Dean nodded, smiling at Priya's deadpanning.

He wondered if he might have somehow made a friend.

* * *

Michael knocked lightly on Dean's door and then entered the airy, blue room. Dean was much better than Sam at keeping his room tidy, he never needed to be yelled at or bribed with fruit smoothies.

Michael decided not to dwell on why Dean was so good at cleaning.

"We've been invited to lunch at Jake's house on Sunday, he's a colleague at work and he's asked the whole family to come along," said Michael.

Dean looked up from the bed where he was reading the latest Top Gear magazine. "Sure thing, would you like anything doing for when you get back? Want me to make dinner?"

Michael had been a banker for twenty years now, he knew a thing or two about reading faces. Hence, he didn't miss the way the young boy's voice stayed casual as his eyes dropped down to stare at the page with false fascination.

"Wait, what?" He feigned stupidity.

"What what?" Dean looked up with confusion and the slightest hint of anger.

"What do you mean you'll make dinner? How do you plan on doing that when you're at the Masons?"

The confusion was quickly masked by a cheeky grin.

"Along with this handsome face, I was also born with the powers of teleportation."

"I don't doubt the ability to teleport, just the first bit of the sentence I'm not sure about," Michael grinned back, "But seriously, I couldn't dream of leaving just you behind, so you'd like to come with us on Saturday?"

"Yeah, sure-" Dean paused. Michael let the silence build up until Dean felt compelled to break it. "I've never been to anyone's house before. I'll probably make a rat's arse of it," he finished, miserably.

"I always do wonder how one can create a rat's arse… and remember what we said about language? So unless you actually have the ability to create the buttocks of a de-winged pigeon, can we refrain from the use of 'arse'?"

"Sure, sorry," said Dean, "I fuc-screw up things like that all the time."

"No worries, I don't think even Jane's ever got the hang of not swearing either. And as for how to behave at someone's house, let's put it this way, even I don't know and I've been dragged to parties all my life. Just be yourself I guess, keep a little check on that tongue and ask us about anything you're not sure of."

"Yeah, I think I can manage that," said Dean, with a nod.

"Good," Michael headed to the door, "Oh and another little thing, Jake's fine, but Lauren can occasionally be a little, erm, _sophisticated_ at times," Michael paused as the unspoken words sank in and Dean rolled his eyes, "so just bear with them and if there's more than one set of cutlery, just start from the outside and work your way in. If it can work for Jack in Titanic, it can work for us, eh?"

"Isn't Titanic meant to be that soppy girls' film about that ship?"

"You mean to say you haven't seen Titanic?" exclaimed Michael.

He regretted his words as he watched the kid shrink into himself as he shook his head.

_Of course he hasn't. And I bet he blames himself for that too. I really am such an awful father._

"It's a great film, we'll watch it together some day!" Michael continued with forced cheeriness. "I'll share a secret with you, Sam always cries near the end but refuses to admit it."

"Okay then," said Dean, with a laugh. He turned back to the magazine and soon lost himself in the pictures and descriptions of fast cars.

_It's sometimes like he's a little version of Jane._


	11. Chapter 11

**Author Note**: Seen as this is the first chapter that starts mentioning year groups, I thought I'd better include my explanation of the English education system here.

You enter the main education system at the age of four, in reception (which is like pre-kindergarten in the US, or so Wikipedia tells me). Then you have year 1, which is kindergarten, and year 2, 3, 4 etc. This all consists of primary school (which is roughly equivalent to elementary school).

At the age of eleven, you leave primary school and enter high school. There are very few middle schools and the vast majority of students go straight from primary to high school. You start that in year 7 (the equivalent of 6th grade).

High school is a little odd in that it technically lasts until year 11 (age 16), but a lot of schools have a sixth form college attached onto them (years 12 and 13, the equivalent of US grades 11 and 12) and so some people say they're still in high school when they're at a sixth form college. In this story, Moreton High works this way.

The main official exams start to occur in year 10 and 11 and are called GCSEs (General Certificate of Secondary Education). They're best equated to OWLs in Harry Potter. Once you've done them, you can technically leave education and enter the world of work, but the vast majority of students stay on and complete their A levels (technically called the General Certificate of Education Advanced Level... because some people have too much time on their hands), which are once again best equated to NEWTs in Harry Potter. You start those when you're 16 and finish them when you're 18. After that, it's university.

Hence, at this point, Sam's in year 7, in his first year of high school. Dean, Priya, and Billy are all in year 11 and are working towards their GCSEs. Exams are sat in May and June (though I've restricted them to June just to make the timeline fit a little better), summer holidays are the end of July and all of August. Results are released mid-August. I think that's pretty much all that's included in this story.

If any of this doesn't make sense, please just drop me a comment. I may be a little blinkered in my explanation, having grown up with this education system.

**Trigger warning: references to past child abuse**

* * *

Sam asked once more for the music to be changed.

"Why can't we listen to something more normal for once? Why does it always have to be something stupid like Def Leppard?"

Mum winked in the rearview mirror at Dean, who covered his own smile with a hand, and turned the music up. "What was that? I can't hear you."

Sam, clearly the only sane person left in his family, leaned back with a huff.

They were driving to Mr Mason's house for lunch. Sam didn't get why Dad had so many old, boring, friends. What did they even talk about? Surely conversations about the weather could only be sustained for so long. Sam usually spent the time going round and asking people what they thought of peanut butter and banana sandwiches while keeping an eye out for the food.

Then it occurred to him, one of the benefits of having a bothersome older brother who laughed at his mum's jokes was that you always had someone to talk to at boring people's parties.

When they arrived, Sam was pleasantly surprised to see that there were some kids there. There was a girl called Jess (who seemed kind of sweet but Sam chose to ignore the weird part of his brain that suddenly seemed to find those aliens of the opposite sex kind of attractive), in year seven, and her brother, Billy, in year eleven.

Sam had been to the Mason household before. It was a large house where everything had its place and it had better stay there or he'd hear about it later from his parents. Nevertheless, Sam was inquisitive by nature and couldn't refuse Jake's offer to see their small library. It was cramped to the point Sam would have felt claustrophobic if he wasn't fascinated by the range of titles surrounding him. Rows upon rows of books were stacked on all four walls, with the newer books nearer the door. Walking through the room was like walking back in time.

Running his eyes across, he found a cookery section that looked utterly boring. It was full of dull recipe books like '1001 things to do with mince' that probably only appealed to the likes of Mrs Mason. That woman gave Sam the creeps, though he never knew why.

There was a light knock at the door and Jess slowly came in.

"Your brother and my brother are talking about cars or something so I thought I'd see if I could find you anywhere," she said, meekly. She was wearing a white top with a floral design on it. Sam was surprised to find he thought it was really pretty.

_When on Earth did you start finding clothes pretty? And for God's sake, stop staring at her…_

In an attempt to hide his stupid habit of gawking, he blurted out, "Do you watch Mythbusters? I do, they're pretty cool. I mean, Adam's really funny and Jamie knows so much, it'd be so awesome to meet them and maybe even try to bust a myth with them. But I question their methods seen as they don't do enough repeats to really valid-, valid-" Sam paused his verbal diarrhoea for a second as he realised he couldn't remember if the word he was searching for ended with an –ate or an –ify. "Enough repeats to make their claims valid. What do you think of peanut butter and banana sandwiches?" he finished awkwardly.

Jess looked just the slightest bit terrified. "Okay then, I think I'll go now."

With that, she quietly slipped out of the door, leaving Sam blushing and wondering why the heck he cared about what some _girl _thought of him.

Trying to think of anything but how nice it looked when Jess's curls sparkled golden in the light, Sam wandered to the back of the room and pulled out a small, inconspicuous, hardback book that was overshadowed by much larger encyclopaedias on the world wars.

_A Short Guide to Ghosts and Other Miscellaneous Items of the Supernatural_

Sam didn't believe in ghosts. He might have done when he was five and got scared when the wind howled but he knew now that everything could be explained by science and reason. Ghosts just did not exist.

_It'd be fun to read this just to laugh at it._

Sam knew he was just trying to justify what he was feeling. Justifying it was much easier than trying to understand why he could feel his fingers itching to lift the cover, why he felt it was _important _that he read this short guide to hocus pocus.

_It'll be a laugh…_

With that thought hanging around his mind as awkwardly as a blatantly fake tan, Sam sat down with his back to a shelf and began to read.

Time flew by as he read about all sorts of mythical creatures, both corporeal (a word he'd definitely have to slip into conversation someday) and not. It had nearly been an hour since he'd picked up the book when the door opened again and Mr Mason peered in.

"Still in here? Did you find something good to read?" asked Mr Mason, as he entered and shut the door behind him.

Sam nodded and held up the book. "It seemed interesting. I'm not sure I believe any of it, but it's kind of fun to read."

"If you like it, I can give you quite a few more to read. I have a few boxes full of them down in the garage," he said, opening the door again, "Hold on, I'll bring them up for you."

While waiting, Sam wondered if Mr Mason was a collector of some sort. Maybe he liked gathering them or something, why else would one have boxes full of books like this one?

_Because they're important._

Sam laughed at himself. Like hell these ghost stories could be important. The monster under the bed just didn't exist. Science said so.

Mr Mason entered the library butt first and set down the two cardboard boxes he'd been carrying.

"I got them off of a distant great-uncle I didn't even know I had. Apparently, he hadn't made a will and I was the closest family that was still alive so I got these, pretty much his only possessions," he gestured to the piles of dusty books and manuscripts. "I didn't know what to do with them so I shoved them in the garage. I planned to throw them away, but if you want, feel free to take them."

He could already hear his mum telling him he'd have to keep them tidily in his room. Nonetheless, Sam grinned. No way was he ever saying no to free books. "I'd love to."

"Great, I'll-" he paused as someone, presumably Mrs Mason, called his name. "Coming!" he yelled at the open door before making his way back out. "Have fun with those," he said to Sam as he left.

Sam waited for the door to click shut before pushing back the corrugated cardboard flaps on the box nearest to him and pulling out the first book, a large, black one with spindly gold writing on the front. Maybe the Masons weren't so boring after all.

* * *

Dean knew it had been a bad idea to come.

The house reminded him too much of his last abode. The same pastel coloured walls, the same pristine rooms, the same unwelcoming smell of bleach.

_You remember the sting of undiluted bleach on your hands? You remember the dread you felt every time you had to put your hands back in the bucket to pull the cleaning rag out, knowing it'd burn like a bitch but you had no fucking choice in the matter? I know you remember. I know you do. Now try to remember you could so easily be returned to that within the blink of an eye. Don't you dare fucking forget that._

Try as he might, he couldn't get the voice in his head to shut up. He knew why too. Try as he might, a little part of him couldn't stop seeing himself as the outsider, the one the family could go on without. He needed them. It didn't work the other way round.

He picked a spot on the couch and started to sit down when the door opened.

"You're that brat the Pypers had taken in, aren't you?" asked a scarily familiar voice.

Dean turned to see Mrs Mason stood ominously in the doorway, her steely glare fixed on him.

_Shit._

He was good at maths, he should have been able to put two and two together. Even if he hadn't looked her in the face at any point, the clues had all still been there. Lauren Mason. The high, nasal voice. The clip-clop of stilettos.

_He's been a good kid recently and there haven't been any punishments for a couple of weeks. Hence, as there's no visible bruising and he isn't looking too gaunt, ma'am asks him to serve dinner for their guests. _

_Dean thinks the guests do something to do with stone because before their arrival the word 'mason' kept being thrown around. He comes out of the kitchen and goes round the table, setting out the plates for dinner._

_"And Lauren? What would you like to drink?" he hears ma'am ask._

_"A glass of red for me, thanks. Who's this?" asks the high pitched lady, watching him from the sofa._

_"Oh, just a kid we took in from the social services. His father couldn't cope with him, I imagine."_

_"How very good of you. Though I always say, you shouldn't have kids if you can't manage them." The nasal lady continues while her husband looks decidedly awkward sat next to her. Dean doesn't know why, but he feels like defending his father. This lady doesn't know jack squat about his father, how dare she pass judgement?_

_But it's not his place to question the guests so he goes back to setting out the cutlery._

_"Awfully quiet, isn't he? Is he…" she makes some kind of gesture while Dean's got his back to her and Kate and Max giggle, making Dean feel sure he's better off having missed it._

_"Well, he has some violent tendencies and a sailor's mouth, but we try to help him as best we can." Sir lets out a long-suffering sigh. A little bit of Dean wants to punch him pretty fucking badly and prove him right. _

_"And do check all your belongings when you leave. His fingers can get a little, er, _itchy_ from time to time," ma'am adds. _

_He can't help but glace up from the table at that. He's just in time to catch the lady's scandalised gasp and the man's look of pity._

_He doesn't like to be pitied so he looks down with a scowl, but that doesn't stop the man from saying, "I'm sure that won't be a problem, will it-" he pauses and turns to sir, "er, what's his name?"_

_"Dean."_

_"Will it, Dean?" He says his name in this soft, caring kind of voice that Dean wants to record and play back to himself whenever he starts to forget who he is. People don't say Dean's name very often. It's usually used pretty clinically, generally when being asked a question in class. But Dean feels that this is how a name is supposed to be said. As if you care about the person it represents._

_"No sir," he whispers back._

_"Well, I should hope so! Imagine keeping a thief in your house! If it were me, he'd not even get a second chance…" she keeps talking in that same, annoyingly high, frequency band that Dean's trying to tune out._

_Dean slides back into kitchen and wills himself to not feel a thing._

"Yes ma'am," said Dean, sinking onto the floor and staring at the red standby light on the plasma screen television as if it's the most fascinating this in the world.

"Trying to ruin the Winchesters' lives now, are you?" she sneered.

Dean shook his head. "No ma'am."

Mrs Mason barely seemed to hear. "I don't know how a self-respecting family like the Winchesters can let someone like you in, I really don't."

_That makes two of us, then._

"Have you made plans to steal anything from them yet?" She spat out the question, as if disgusted to find herself speaking to filth like him.

Dean continued to stare at the borders of the television- _Why does that insult always cut so badly? -_The left side hadn't been cleaned properly, there were fingerprints on it, ruining the shiny veneer- _It's because you know it's true –_and there was a spot near the back that had been missed, an ugly patch of grey amongst the gleaming black- _The Winchesters will work it out too, soon._

Yeah, okay, fine. He'd stolen before. Normally just small things. A slice of bread, some sheets of lined paper, the odd pen. But he'd honestly had no plans to ever steal from the Winchesters. They'd been more than fair to him.

He turned to face those grey eyes again and answered coldly, "One does not bite the hand that feeds one."

"True," Mrs Mason seemed almost disappointed by the answer, "But that's nothing to stop you from stealing from us, is it?"

Dean could see what was coming next and he utterly dreaded it.

"Turn out your pockets."

He shut his eyes to stop the damn tears leaking out. Why couldn't people give him one fucking chance before they decided he was scum that didn't deserve to breathe the same air as them?

"Dean hasn't stolen anything!"

His hands paused in the act of tugging at the inside of his pockets. Billy strode into the room and glared at Mrs Mason as he jerked Dean onto his feet and sat him down on the sofa.

Clearly as surprised at the interruption as Dean, Mrs Mason straightened her dress and walked to the door. "Alright, well, keep your pilfering hands off my property. Do I make myself clear?" She gave him one last glare and then exited.

Dean nodded, he had no wish to touch the bitch's Royal Doulton anyway. For now he was struggling to come to terms with the fact someone who he thought hated him had actually helped him.

It didn't make sense.

Billy had been blanking him ever since he moved to sit next to him and Priya in maths. Even today, Billy hadn't spoken a word since they'd arrived. Dean didn't mind, or so he told himself. Being ignored was better than being actively hated. Besides, it wasn't like there weren't a multitude of reasons to avoid Dean.

Billy stopped the silence from stretching too long.

"So what was that about?" he asked, staring at the floor, clearly finding the situation just as awkward.

No point lying. The kid already knew what that had been about. "She thought I'd stolen something."

"And had you?" Billy asked quietly.

"Not today, no," replied Dean.

"So that means you've stolen before?" Billy blurted out the question and then seemed to regret it. Dean held back a chuckle, he was the one admitting to his criminal past and Billy was the one embarrassed.

"I guess so, yeah. I've taken things like bit of food, maybe the odd sheet of paper if Kate wanted her homework done but wasn't willing to lend me the resources. Stuff like that."

"That doesn't sound too bad," he mumbled weakly. Then, he asked, "Who's Kate?"

"No one."

Billy nodded and leaned back, "how come you're with the Winchesters?"

"Well, I'm sort of adopted by them now. I think so, anyway."

"I thought it might be something like that. We've known the Masons for a while and they've spoken of the Winchesters, but they only ever mentioned Sam."

"I only moved in with them about a month ago."

Billy stopped staring at the mantelpiece, looked Dean in the eye and said the last things Dean expected to hear.

"Look, I'm sorry about ignoring you so much in school. I mean, it was a dick move. You're new here and everything and I was just there, trying to pretend you don't exist." He paused and stared at the carpet before continuing quietly, "It felt weird to think of there being someone else hanging out with me and Priya."

Dean's brain tried to keep up with the words coming from Billy's mouth. It made no sense, he was apologising for just ignoring him? Hell, he hadn't even done anything wrong!

"Priya told me to at least give you a chance, she thinks you're kind of nice to have around. I didn't want to hear it. I mean, her and I have been friends for years now and I couldn't see why we'd need anyone else. But I get what she meant now, you seem like an alright guy."

"Uh, thanks, I guess."

"So are we cool? Will I ever get to see that Impala you guys have?"

Grinning at the mention of their baby, Dean replied, "Yeah, we're cool. And she's beautiful, isn't she?"

"They don't do them like her anymore, that's for sure. I mean, the Veyron's pretty awesome in itself, but it doesn't compare to the classics."

"Oh definitely, a Mustang will always beat a Ferrari Maranello."

Billy's sister, Jess, wandered in and plopped down on the couch with the lack of sophistication that made children so fun to be around.

"What are you guys talking about?"

"Cars. Wanna join in?" replied Billy.

Jess promptly pulled herself off the couch and walked out of the room.

"Works every time" Billy grinned.


	12. Chapter 12

On Monday, Priya was pleasantly surprised to walk into maths to find Billy and Dean already in the seats on either side of hers, talking animatedly over the gap.

"You guys still trying to pick which one's the best Tellytubby?" she called by way of greeting.

Billy shuffled his folder and books over to make room on her desk. Priya needed a lot of room. She liked to spread her sheets around until the table could no longer be seen.

"We were just discussing films. He's never seen Silence of the Lambs! Can you imagine that?"

"That's practically sacrilege! Where have you been living?"

Dean stiffened and looked down at his textbook like his life depended on him deducing the value of each theta. "I dunno," he said, gruffly, "I've just been busy."

"I didn't mean it like that. I just meant you'd really like Silence of the Lambs. Well, I reckon so anyway, it's a great film."

"No, I get what you mean," Dean mumbled.

Mohammed turned round to ask what Priya had gotten in her last maths test.

"I dropped a couple of marks, you?"

"I got full marks" said Mohammed, with a self-satisfied smirk.

"And let me guess, you didn't revise at all?"

"Yep, I never revise." The grin got wider. Priya just smiled until he turned back round to his desk.

"Bullshit," she muttered.

Billy and Dean contained their laughter. Everyone found it ridiculous that Mohammed clearly worked hard and put in effort to get the grades and results he did and yet seemed ashamed to admit it. He somehow thought there was credit in pretending to be someone who didn't work at all and still got great results. He also somehow thought no one else would piece things together.

The rest of the lesson went by slowly. Mr Watson droned on, as was habitual for him. Priya continued to ignore most of what he said, as was habitual for her. She started copying out the questions, finding herself wondering again about the enigma sat next to her.

Dean seemed like a really decent guy, if a little quiet and lacking in knowledge on pop culture. Over the last week, he'd started quoting more and more of the Simpsons. It seemed to be just about the only reference he could make. Then there was the fact he jumped a little whenever his name was called in class. She guessed he just didn't like the pressure. But that didn't explain why his eyes filled with fear every time it happened.

_He's got nothing to be scared of. He's pretty darn awesome at maths._

Feeling just as confused as she was before, she decided to focus on finding the roots of the polynomials in front of her. Besides, Dean seemed to trust her, she could ask him about these things later.

_Why are you even thinking about him so much?_

Not wanting to think about that question, she quietly got on with her work while the boys talked over her head about which model of Mercedes was worth giving your right arm for.

The bell went for the next class and Priya and Billy sauntered to English while Dean marched off to a Spanish lesson.

_He even walks like he's terrified of being late and yet too scared of breaking the rules and running._

_Weird._

Billy was a welcome interruption to her thoughts.

"I was wrong about Dean."

"And what did it take for you to figure that out, genius?"

"Something weird happened at the weekend. We were at the Masons for a birthday party and at one point I went to the toilet."

Priya couldn't resist a joke about Billy's infamously minuscule bladder.

"I'm being serious here. I was coming back and I heard Mrs Mason accusing Dean of being a thief and stealing things. I sort of lost my rag. I walked in and yelled that he hadn't stolen anything. She left, we got talking and man, Priya, I don't know what to think of what he said."

"What did he say?" whispered Priya, her face sombre.

"He said he had stolen before." Seeing the look of surprise blooming on Priya's face, he quickly continued. "But this is the weird bit. He's stolen things like bits of food and a sheet of paper. And even those only if he was desperate, from the sounds of it."

"I-I don't know what to make of that either."

"The whole party was incredibly awkward. Mrs Mason didn't say anything again but she refused to pass any food to Dean. He had to get it all through others. Though, now I think about it, I don't think he ever asked for any food at all. He just took some if anyone else offered him any. He just kind of sat there, trying to avoid looking at Lauren. I think his parents noticed, but they never said anything-"

Billy glanced down at his watch.

"Shit, we better run to English, Miss Harris will be pissed." They hitched up their backpack and broke into a run, both mentally planning to resume the conversation but never getting round to it.

* * *

"Dad! You used white thread instead of dark blue!"

Jane heard the frustrated yell from the garage, where she was cleaning the baby's rims with Dean.

Sam stomped down the stairs and into the garage, holding the incriminating shirt up in front of her.

"The rest of the buttons have dark blue thread, this one just looks ridiculous!"

Michael followed Sam in. "What does it matter if it's white? You can barely see it."

"The buttons are practically black! Of course they can be seen! I'll look like an idiot."

Michael sighed in frustration. Jane could appreciate why. The button was sewed on quite neatly, though the white was admittedly a stark contrast against the navy blue of the mathlete uniform.

"Alright Adrian Monk, I'll sew it on again in dark blue. Will that do?" Dean reached forward to take the shirt.

"It's kind of you to offer, Dean, but if there had been any blue thread, I'd have done it," said Michael.

"Sam and I could go get some?" Jane hated the way Dean would only ever ask for something if he felt it'd be useful to them or if he was really desperate. "And Sam, mind watching so you can do it yourself next time?" That was better. At least he was willing to let Sam take some responsibility, even if it was still too polite for brotherly banter.

Sam gave a sulky nod.

"Okay boys, pick up some milk while you're out, will you?" Jane opened the garage door and let them out. She tried to stop staring as she watched her sons put on their coats, her eldest gripping it like it might be taken away any second. He still had nightmares, still begged for mercy in his sleep, still apologised for any inconvenience he might have caused.

A tiny bit of Jane wondered if he'd ever be okay.

The Pypers had been bastards.

Dean's father had been a bastard.

All her eldest son had known was bastards and here she was, expecting him to trust again within the space of six weeks.

"Race you to the shop, midget," said Dean.

The next few moments seared themselves to her mind.

Sam barrelled through the door just as Dean was throwing on his leather jacket. The elder brother sprinted to catch up with the younger. The younger glanced behind, laughter in his eyes, and ran faster, out onto the road.

The screech of brakes, as loud as a peal of thunder, as Jane stood, frozen.

Sam turned to see what he had done, to see the owner of the Land Rover making a futile attempt to brake. Too late.

"Sammy!"

A body hit Sam's and he was flung onto the pavement on the other side.

Her elder son flopped onto the bonnet of the car before falling in front of it as it finally came to a halt.

A cry from the other side of the pavement. "Dean!"

* * *

The room took a second to right itself as Dean awoke to the sight of a hospital ceiling.

"Dean? Are you awake?"

On the white paint walls of the ward, the scene replayed itself. Dean suggesting an idiotic race to Sam. Sam laughing, running ahead. The car's pathetic attempts to slow down. Dean doing the only thing he could to save his benefactors' son.

No.

It was more than that.

The thought of Sam's smile being obliterated forever was enough to turn Sam, son of Mr and Mrs Winchester, into Sammy, pain in the ass little brother.

"Is Sammy alright?"

"I'm here Dean, I'm fine." Sam's concerned face moved into his eye line. "I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry."

"The heck you sorry for?" mumbled Dean. Sam just continued to look at him, tears brimming in his eyes.

The light bulb finally flicked on in his drug-addled mind.

This was the end. This wasn't his pipe dream. It never had been. Happy endings didn't happen to Dean, neither metaphorically, nor euphemistically. He'd had it easy here, his one job being to look out for Sam, and he'd done what he always did. He'd failed.

They wanted him out. After all, no one keeps a broken machine.

"It's alright, I understand. Can I take any of the books with me?" he asked tentatively, wondering how far he could push his luck.

"Sorry?"

Dean turned to see Mr Winchester sat next to his bed, looking perplexed.

"That was going too far, wasn't it?" Dean mustered a bad attempt at a cheeky grin.

"I'm afraid I don't get what you're on about," said sir.

"Nah, I get it, I got Sam into danger, you want me out." Once again, he tried to smile as he felt his stupid little hopes of a family that actually wanted him shatter. "I mean, I get why. I'm a pain to have around. I eat too much and I barely do any work. But what if I didn't mess up this time? What if I made sure I watched out for Sammy?" His voice caught in his throat as the tears misting his eyes attempted to be spilt. "You'd not even notice I'm here," he choked.

Mr Winchester looked like he'd been sucker punched in the gut. "When did we say anything like that?"

"Sam did, just now! He-he said he was sorry because I had to leave and-"

"I said sorry because you've got a broken leg because of me, Dean!" Sam cried.

Dean stared at Sam, struggling to comprehend. "What?" he asked, dumbly.

"I also wanted to say thank you. I'd have been roadkill if it wasn't for you."

"What the fu-" A glance from Mr Winchester changed his choice of words, "-udge are you on about? It was because of me and my verbal runs that you ran out onto the road in the first place!"

"I'm old enough to know to not do that, Dean. I'm twelve, I know better than to run onto roads."

"Oh because that's practically old-lady-in-Titanic-ancient!" Dean rolled his eyes, before fixing them on Mr Winchester. "You really aren't going to kick me out?"

A slight shake of the head from sir was enough to let Dean be engulfed by his pipe dream once again. The feeling of elation overtook the dull pain of his right leg and a genuine smile crept across his face.

Sam bounced onto the foot of Dean's bed. "If anyone ever tries to get you to leave, I'll yell at them until they change their mind."

Both the feeling of joy and the smile grew deeper. "You yell with those midget lungs, Sammy."

"Aww Dean! Don't call me that! It sounds babyish," sulked Sam.

The smile vanished. "Of course, if you don't want that, Sam."

Sam glanced up at Dean, surprised by the change in tone.

"I guess you could call me it, I don't really mind it all that much." Sam inspected his nails as he'd seen people do when they wanted to pretend they didn't care. If Dean were a girl, he'd even have admitted it was cute.

Dean rolled over and closed his eyes, fighting the growing grin.

_So this is what it's really like to have a family._


	13. Chapter 13

**Trigger warning: this chapter contains a discussion of hirsutism. **While I appreciate some people are uncomfortable with this topic, this is the very reason I decided to include it in this story. It's a reality for 5 to 15% of women and it's saddening the way it's so heavily sidelined because everyone sees it as the woman's responsibility to remove excessive hair growth in order to be fit for today's society. Jokes, taunts and mild bullying are often directed towards girls with this condition and I wanted to explore what one goes through when trying to both fit into society while still maintaining one's individuality and identity.

P.S. I've finally gotten round to putting trigger warnings on all the other chapters

* * *

It had been a week since Dean had broken his leg and he was currently using his behind to open the door to the maths classroom.

Once inside, he leant against his desk as he clumsily took out the necessary books.

"Oh give it here!" Priya huffed and reached for the bag with one hand while pulling out his chair with the other. "How's the leg healing?"

"Fine, though I've been fed so much chicken soup I don't think I can ever look at the stuff again." Dean said with a smile, "Sam insisted on making it yesterday. I should get a medal for keeping it down."

"I guess you won't be letting him near the kitchen again?" Priya grinned back.

"Like that little shit listens to anything I ever say." said Dean fondly.

They continued to work their way through a sheet on the equations of circles. As he let his pen glide over the paper, Dean thought over the last week. The last thing he wanted to do was hope. He had just spent a week with a broken leg, being fed chicken soup and pie. It was all so alien, such a far cry from being told he was a waste of effort and space, that it had quickly become his greatest fear that it would all come crashing down about his ears, as life tended to.

The last thing he wanted to do was hope. He feared it might already be too late.

Priya marked the end of the lesson with a loud sigh. "Thank fuck that's over. If he'd spoken for even a second longer, I'd either have fallen asleep or committed praecepticide."

"Sounds like the unpopular cousin of 'pesticide'" Billy said with a shrug, as they walked to the common room.

"It's Latin for killing teachers," she paused as Dean looked at her incredulously, "c'mon! I have to put that Latin GCSE to use somewhere!"

"Sure thing, A* girl," Dean spoke absentmindedly, looking for somewhere to sit seen as their usual table was taken. His eyes settled on some free seats in the centre of the room and he headed towards it.

Around the table were Alex, Remy and Beth. The boys were busy in a discussion about the various uses of radiation, each suggestion being more deadly than the last, while Beth was busy reading the latest text for her English class. She was beautiful, in a prim, proper, sort of way. Her long, blonde hair surrounded a face perfectly accentuated by make-up.

"Hello shortie, how's the weather down there?" Remy addressed Priya as he shuffled his bag to make room for Dean's crutches.

"Warm, thanks. I hope you get frostbite up there," replied Priya. "I haven't seen you around in ages, Mrs Griffiths still giving you hell?"

"Who doesn't love darling Mrs Griffiths, with her nasal voice and claws for nails?"

Priya laughed. "So like you on a good day then?"

"Not fair! Just because you have a deep voice!"

Priya sighed, "And yet you don't listen to me. Besides, how can you say I have a deep voice when we have Morgan Freeman over here?" she gestured towards Dean.

Feeling a little put on the spot, Dean said, "I like to think it's because of my perky nipples."

Beth let out a quiet giggle from behind her copy of Frankenstein. Dean felt a light blush rise.

"However, the question is, what's the cause of Priya's voice then? It's not like she can even use Dean's excuse." Beth looked over her book to wink at Dean.

Priya's smile faltered. "I reckon I was blessed with a voice with gravitas so I can drill some sense into these numbskulls," she gave both Billy and Dean a light shove.

"Along with the need to shave?"

Priya's face froze and she gathered her folders. Without looking back, she weaved her way out of the busy common room, head tucked between her shoulders.

Dean stared at Beth. Everything about her had stopped being attractive. Now she reminded him of Kate. The same straitlaced appearance, the same caustic personality.

At least Priya wasn't like that.

You got what you saw, with Priya. Sure, she wasn't anywhere near as cute as Beth. She _did _have facial hair, and quite a lot of it, now he came to think about it. She was crude and she swore and she could possibly out-eat Dean in a burger contest. But that was her all over. She never pretended to be anyone she wasn't.

Dean suddenly felt the urge to defend his best friend.

"I don't know what you have against her or what game you're playing, but that was really fucking bitchy."

Secretly enjoying the fact Beth now looked like she'd been slapped with a dead fish, Dean grabbed his crutches and pulled himself up.

"Where will she have gone?" he asked Billy.

"She'll be on the school playing fields, but don't go to her now. She's never appreciated me trying to help her at such times."

"You go out of the left wing entrance to get to them, don't you?"

Billy nodded and started to reiterate what he'd said but it was too late, Dean was already walking to the door and opening it with his behind.

* * *

Dean dropped his crutches on the grass and slowly lowered himself down next to Priya.

She sat, hugging her knees, face buried. The only sounds to puncture the silence were the rustle of a cat walking through the bushes at the edge of the hill and her muffled sobs.

"What Beth said," Dean was unsure of how to phrase what he meant to say, how to get across that he knew what it was like to be singled out for a flaw you couldn't control. "She was wrong," he finished lamely.

Rubbing her eyes vigorously, Priya shot Dean a glare. "She was wrong? Because to me, it didn't seem like she was mistaken at any point. It's the truth, that's why it hurts."

Fresh tears formed in her eyes and she scraped them away with the back of her hand.

"I'm being an idiot," she laughed weakly, "I let myself forget that the first thing people see in me is the keratin that refuses to stop spouting out of my skin."

"It wasn't the first thing I spotted about you."

"Look, I get you're trying to be a good friend and all, but just- just leave me alone?"

Dean stayed where he was, his eyes following the cat around the edge of the field as Priya stifled her sobs and wiped away the tears.

"You really don't have to waste your free time here, you know. You'll never convince me that 'it's not noticeable' or 'I look pretty anyway' so let's just save you some time and leave that out."

"I don't mean to convince you of anything," Dean spoke softly, surprised at how much those wet, miserable eyes were bothering him, "I guess I just wanted to say that Beth was out of line. Now, I don't know about anyone else, but for me, the fact you came to sit with and talk to an anti-social stranger made it difficult for me to notice anything else." Dean hadn't realised how quiet his voice had gotten towards the end and Priya had started speaking again.

"I don't even care about Beth! I choose to look the way I do! So why does it bother me, Dean? Why does it still hurt so much when people point it out?" She buried her face in her arms again.

Dean gave two awkward pats on her back. She looked up, her expression changing from anger to amusement as her lips quirked with the hint of a smile.

"What? I'm no good at all this feelings stuff," said Dean.

"It's fine, you don't have to be." She looked out to the trees where a squirrel scampered up a large oak.

"You're a strong person, Priya. You've got a thick skin, people figure it's impenetrable."

"And that makes it okay, does it? To say things they know can hurt?"

"No, no it doesn't-"

"I _chose _this. I've had comments about my appearance ever since I hit puberty. I could have easily chosen to get rid of any excess hair and wear make-up every day. But no, I decided to stick to what I'm comfortable in and not change for people I don't give a damn about. So why does it bother me so fucking much when people point it out? I mean, I practically _chose _to be bullied on this."

"Just because you decided not to change doesn't give them free reign to say whatever they like."

Priya ripped a handful of grass our and gave an exasperated sigh. "Why can't people just leave me alone?"

"Because people can't stand knowing someone smarter and friendlier than them and not trying to bring them down to their level," said Dean, thinking of report card days, the hours spent leaning his forehead against the wall as Max and Kate took turns to wield the belt.

Priya bit her lip and shook her head. "It's not that simple… but I think that's enough of a Care Bear moment for today," she smiled lightly and picked up their bags. "Do I look like I've been crying?"

"A bit. But it's fine, you just go in there, flip her off from beneath the table and then just forget her altogether, alright?"

Dean was slowly manoeuvring himself into a standing position when Priya grabbed his arm and lifted him up with surprising strength.

"Dean," Priya watched the cat slink off through a hole in the school railings, "thanks. You're better at this feelings stuff than you give yourself credit for."

"Wow Priya," Dean grinned. "Was that a compliment?"

"Shut up."

* * *

Dean was putting on his jacket when Sam decided to make his move.

"Hey, wait up, I think I might come with you."

"Are you sure? I'm just going to Billy's house, not the Batcave."

Sam could understand the suspicion in Dean's voice. He'd gotten a laptop for his twelfth birthday and that had kept him occupied constantly ever since. Suddenly wanting to go with Dean to a revision session instead of trying to complete some more quizzes on Sporcle didn't make a whole lot of sense.

It didn't make sense to Sam either.

He wasn't sure why he wanted to go, he tried to tell himself it was just because he wanted to hang out with his brother. Siblings do that, right?

But it was more than that. Try as he might, he couldn't ignore the fact that a pretty face with golden hair that shone in the sun kept popping into his head.

_Jess is just a friend. Just a friend. I mean, girls can be alright sometimes, they can be fun to hang around with. It's alright if I want to hang out with my friend. After all, she is my friend. Just a friend._

"I'd just like to get out of the house for a bit and everything… besides, doesn't Billy have a brother or sister or something?" Sam tried to ignore his father's barely concealed laugh.

"I'm surprised you can't even remember the gender of this sibling, Sammy, it's not like you." Dean was wearing his shit-eating grin.

"Yeah, well, I've remembered now, it was a 'her', so there." Sam stuck out his tongue as he felt his cheeks grow warm.

"Dean's going over there to work, you might get bored." Sam's dad had a way of always saying the sensible things he didn't want to hear. Ranging from 'lights off now, you've got an early start tomorrow' to 'no, you cannot get _Goode on Commercial Law _for your tenth birthday, let's start somewhere a little simpler and lay the foundations first', he was really annoying in that what he said often made sense.

Sam started up the stairs when Dean spoke, a smile still planted firmly on his face. "I've got no problem taking Sam with me, sir," the grin faltered, "I'll look after him. I'll not fail you this time."

Sam didn't want to go anymore.

Sam didn't want to go anywhere until Dean stopped beating himself up about the accident.

Dad sighed and came to the base of the stairs. "Alright Sam, you can come along, but I don't want you disturbing the boys."

The thought of seeing Jess again had him jumping to get his coat.

_I'll see if I can talk without a verbal spasm this time._

_Why do I care? She's just a friend._

_Her smile's kind of sweet._

Just _a friend._

He was pulled out of his mental turmoil by the sight of Dean swinging swiftly on his crutches towards the Impala.

"Shotgun!" Sam yelled and broke into a run towards the front seat.

Sam didn't miss the way Dean slowed down so he could catch up.

"Not fair! You won that!" Sam leaned against the door, panting.

"You've got your hand on the door. You won fair and square, Sammy."

"Don't call me that!"

"How about Samantha?" Dean winked.

"Right, for that, I'm taking the front seat."

Sam slid in just as his father was starting the engine. He turned to look as he was reversing the car and caught Dean's eye.

"You've never failed me, Dean. I'm proud of you."


	14. Chapter 14

**Trigger warning: **Non-graphic description of rape. Skip the part in italics if you want to avoid that.

* * *

Sam urged himself for the umpteenth time to ask to leave the room and go see Jess. But every time he came to open his mouth fireworks went off in his stomach and he found his jaw clamping shut again.

"So we have Heathcliff being taken in by Mr Earnshaw. We get hints about his dark side, lines like 'as if it came from the devil' imply that he doesn't fit into his new family, he's going to be the downfall of the house. He's described to be 'dark' and that links in with the idea of black and white, good and evil. It's like the rest of the family is pure and untainted, whereas he's the black spot that can never be clean."

While Dean had been working hard to take notes previously, Sam noticed he'd started gazing off into the distance, pen unmoving in his hand.

"Dean, are you still with me?" Billy shook his shoulder.

"Uh, yeah, yeah, evil in the family, going to bring down their happy little existence," he started scribbling again.

"I baked some cookies, anyone want some?" Jess walked in, wearing a yellow dress with floral patterns again.

_Why am I even thinking about what she's wearing?_

_What the heck is wrong with me?_

_(Though it does really suit her)_

_(Goes really well with her hair)_

_Seriously… what on Earth is wrong with me?_

"I-I'll have one," Sam felt his cheeks flush crimson for the second time that day.

He didn't miss Dean's smothered snort.

He took a cookie and bit down. It was slightly burnt on the outside but the excess of chocolate inside more than made up for it.

"It's, it's really good," he felt a huge (quite possibly goofy) grin spread across his face. God, he was an embarrassment.

"Thank you," she smiled and turned to the boys lying sprawled across the floor, surrounded by papers and anthologies, "Either of you want one?"

"Not if you made it."

"Wasn't offering it to you anyway."

"You said 'either', that includes me."

"Shut up."

"Yeah, shut it Billy, I'll take one, Jess," Dean took a large bite, "Sammy was right, they really are good!" He sent a wink Sam's way.

Sam was so busy looking anywhere but at Jess, he forgot to be annoyed.

Having returned the plate to the kitchen, Jess came over to the sofa as the older boys continued with their character analyses.

"I dunno, if you really like listening to my brother drone on, go for it. But if you're a bit bored, we could go for a walk, it's a nice day."

Sam jumped up with relief. "Let me just get my jacket."

Jess's mother had restricted them to the hill outside their house (because everyone knows axe murderers live just over that hill) and they had to get back in an hour. It wasn't as long or as far as Sam would have liked but anything was better than listening to any more about Heathcliff and Cathy's undying love for each other.

"So how come your brother's having to copy up all the notes for Wuthering Heights? They covered it all in school, didn't they?" asked Jess, her dress clinging to her knees.

_Just a friend._

"He went to a different school until recently. I think they did 'Of Mice and Men' there instead. Dean keeps saying "I like machines" while patting the Impala."

"Impressive that you managed to deduce the book from one quote."

"Nah, I asked Mum. Nothing to do with my little grey cells," Sam spoke absentmindedly as he tried to avoid some horse manure.

It was only when he looked up again that he saw the wide eyes and even wider grin on her face. "Poirot?"

"You read Agatha Christie books?" asked Sam, delighted at not only finding another reader, but also for finding a legitimate reason to like Jess apart from the weird part of his brain that kept saying she was pretty.

"Mhmm, now the question is… Poirot or Miss Marple?"

"Miss Marple, definitely. Poirot's a little too idiosyncratic for me."

"Idiohooha?"

"Sorry, idiosyncratic just means odd little behaviours that only that person does. That what Mr Morris, my English teacher, told us." Sam didn't know what to make of the slight hint of amusement in Jess's face. "It's my word of the day, today," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Jess laughed. It was a sweet, open, laugh that made Sam smile at his own awkwardness. "But that's half the fun of Poirot, his quirky little habits!"

"Poirot's not bad, I just like the way Miss Marple seems like this typical, nosy, old lady but really, she's as sharp as razor blades. It really shows you that people tend to be really different to how they seem to be."

Jess considered Sam's words, looking back over her shoulder at the house at the base of the hill. "That sounds a bit like Dean."

"What do you mean?" Sam was genuinely curious as to how Dean could be similar to a spinster that liked to solve murder mysteries.

"Well, when Billy first spoke about him, he said he was a weirdo who didn't talk to anyone and seemed scared of everything. But look at them now. They're best friends who can't shut up about what's the best type of pie." Jess stopped to shake a stone out of her shoe. "I think Billy just needs a while to make friends with anyone, really."

"I don't think it's his fault he came to that conclusion. Dean wasn't exactly the nicest to Priya on his first day. I can imagine Billy being annoyed at someone who was rude to his friend."

"Dean seems alright, if a little quiet, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Nah, I don't mind, it's true," Sam glanced over his shoulder as they approached the crest of the hill, "I wish he wasn't."

Once at the top, Jess smoothed out her dress and placed herself on a patch of bracken, while Sam plopped himself down, his ever-growing legs folding up beneath him.

"I mean, I don't mind him being quiet, heck I don't even mind his antisocial side all that much. It's when I feel like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. He seems to want to avoid any kind of argument or confrontation."

"Wait, you _want _arguments? We should swap brothers, you'll get plenty of arguments with Billy," said Jess, rolling her eyes.

"No, no, it's not that. It's just- " Sam looked down at the house in which his brother was eagerly trying to catch up on around a year's worth of English lessons, eagerly trying not to be a disappointment. "That cast on his leg, that's my fault, but he must have apologised a bazillion times for it. I'm the one who ran into the middle of the road without looking, I'm the one who should be sorry he broke his leg saving me, I'm the complete idiot in all this. But no, he blames himself for everything and it makes me mad." Sam remembered where he was when he felt Jess's hand rest lightly on his. "Sorry, I'm rambling again, I'll stop."

"It's alright. And not meaning to sound soppy or anything, but surely you can see it's because he really cares about you?"

"Oh trust me, I can see that. How many people jump in front of a car for you? If anything, I wish he cared less."

"He's your older brother, what else did you expect?"

* * *

_He drags himself onto the toilet seat and rips a few sheets of tissue off, for once not caring about being 'wasteful' or 'inconsiderate' of his father's hard earned money. He knows how much his father owes him._

_"Terry, stop trying to fucking deny it, I've seen you eyeing him up and I'm okay with it. In fact, I'd like to make you a deal. Come over here, bring a hundred quid with you, and have your way with the boy." His father paused, listening intently. Then a drunken smile spread across his face, "Completely unused goods. Don't forget to bring the money." He ended the call._

_He dabs away as much blood as he can, then takes some more tissue, folds it up, and places it in his oversized boxers. Using the edge of the bathtub to pull himself up, he hobbles to the sink, careful to keep the tissue in place, and watches the scarlet rivers drain down the plughole._

_His cheek twitches from the irony as he realises he's grateful for the blood. The blood stopped the chafing after the first few thrusts. The blood acted as a- what was it? He knew the word. He'd met it before. Lubrifant? Something like that._

_He shouldn't have said it. It was a lie, a damned lie. Almost a statistic._

_"It's not my fault mum died."_

_It was. There was nobody to blame but the boy she had been pushing out when her number was called. He had yelled it when his father had once again accused him of what he had spent a lifetime holding himself accountable for. He was the reason his father drank. He had nobody but himself to blame for the fact he couldn't be like other kids. He was the cause of all misery in a poor widower's life._

_The man had arrived in less than half an hour. He had pulled his shorts and boxers off in less than half a minute. The agony of forced entry had bloomed in less than half a second. _

_He coughs into the basin, his voice hoarse from the name calling. Everything from 'poohead' to the more exotic 'junkless pervert' had been exhausted. The man hadn't listened. The man hadn't stopped. The man had held down his throat until he could do no more than let his body be a mannequin 'til he'd served his time._

_He looks up at the mirror. The finger-shaped bruises around his neck will fade. The repulsion he feels when he looks into his eyes to see the filthy, stained soul underneath is far more permanent._

_The man ran his hand down his back one last time before smacking his rear and getting up. "I'll be back," said the man. _

_He thinks about the line as he shuffles into the living room. He's heard the line before. Something in school. Probably something to do with the magic media box his father does not approve of. Termites? Termination? _

_A little part of him wishes something would terminate him._

_He lies down on the carpet, glad the evening is warm, and places his head on the worn pillow. Thank God for creature comforts. _

_His father is sat at the table, a glass of Scotch in one hand, five twenty pound notes in the other. Their eyes catch and his father averts, knocks back the drink, and leaves._

_It's only when he hears the bedroom door click shut he allows the tears to spill. His entire body shakes as he tries to come to terms with the fact he has now been broken in every way one can be._

_"Hey Jude, don't make it bad," he sings, his whispers broken by sobs, "take a sad song and make it-"_

_He can't remember the next word. He strains his memories, trying to remember his father's drunken, tuneless, crooning of his mother's favourite song._

_"Better." Better. He even feels better now he's remembered it. Marginally so, but if anything is going to go right today, he is going to remember this. He is going to hold onto this like a glowstick in the dark. Utterly useless and yet all he has._

_Suddenly, the floor starts shaking. He feels his body rock, especially his shoulders._

_The singing gets louder. It is no longer his voice._

"Dean! Are you alright?"

Dean jerked his head up to find himself in the year eleven common room of Moreton High, Billy on his left, holding the arm he'd just been shaking to steady him, and Priya on his right, offering him a tissue.

Confused by the tissue, he rubbed his fingers across his cheek, they came off wet.

Shit. He'd tried so hard not to fall asleep. But the exhaustion of revising late into the night for the upcoming exams was taking its toll.

"Remember to let her into your heart," the common room speakers continued to play the best of The Beatles.

_The man. The first one. His hand wrapping around Dean's. His tongue gliding along his neck._

_The croaking voice, the forgotten lyrics, the desperate wish to be clean._

"This song. I've-I've got to go." His voice broke as he fumbled to get his rucksack onto his back.

With the aid of his crutches, Dean walked into the deserted middle yard, pausing intermittently to wipe away tears to find more soon taking their place.

"Wait up, Dea-ow!" Priya ran straight into his bag as he stopped short. Rubbing her nose, she continued, "What was that about?"

"Nothing, the song…" He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to black out the images, "Nothing."

"What song?"

If there was anyone in this new school he trusted, it was the girl stood in front of him, wishing to only help, showing only concern. Still, there were some stories not made for sharing.

"I'm fine, really, must just be my time of the month." He tried for a patented Dean-grin.

"You do realise that wasn't funny?" she said, bluntly.

Dean knew it wasn't. But being seen as a dick was better than being seen for who he was. He didn't reply and let the silence grow.

In the end, she broke it. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked as she leaned against the pillar next to him.

Dean shook his head lightly. He might have been acting a little emotional lately, but that didn't mean he was up for all the sharin' and carin' shit.

"No."

She lifted up his left wrist, exposing the two white scars and the Pandora's Box full of bad memories. "Will you ever talk about it?"

Damn girl didn't miss a thing.

"No."

She let go of his hand. Dean found he missed the feel of her warm skin on his.

"Well, if you ever change your mind, feel free to drag me out of whatever I'm doing and ramble on at me for however long you want."

"Thanks," he said, smiling as the Led Zeppelin lyrics replaced the melody that haunted his dreams.

She laughed and punched his shoulder. "Don't mention it, that's what pain-in-the-ass friends are for."


	15. Chapter 15

**Trigger warning:** References to child abuse

* * *

A month later, exams were over, summer was here, and Dean's cast was finally gone. He threw a roundhouse kick into thin air, once again relishing the ability to bend his limbs. Twisting the other way, he put his newly freed leg on the ground and raised his left for a jumping side kick. As he landed, his right leg crumpled beneath him and he fell into a heap on the carpet, confirming he did indeed need to watch a few more martial arts videos before he could legitimately claim to be the next Chuck Norris (or maybe even Jet Li, just to annoy Sam).

As tempted as he was to next try a heel click, he pulled himself up and got back to what he had to do.

Dean made sure the coast was clear as he pulled his wardrobe drawer open. It was going to be difficult to get rid of what he'd spent nearly three months building up.

There was nothing he could do about this, though. He'd heard them talking. Something about ma'am's brother coming to visit. They were having guests over and as this was the guest room, it didn't require Einstein to work out where they'd be staying. It was far safer if he removed the evidence than they find it here and it result in him being in deeper shit than that kid in Slumdog Millionaire.

Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel a warm sense of gratitude at the sight of underwear that didn't look like Swiss cheese.

_Who'd have thought it? Dean Whatever-his-name actually has boxers that have only ever been worn by Dean Whatever-his-name._

The grin at the thought of personal possessions quickly vanished when he heard a quick rap on the door. He paused, the false back he'd built still in his hands, as Mr Winchester walked in.

_Holy shit on a stick._

"What's that, Dean?"

Dean made a pathetic attempt to hide the cardboard behind his back. "What's what?"

Sir came over to him and took it from his pliant hands. Dean repressed a shudder.

"What's going on?" asked sir, the hint of wary caution in his voice terrifying Dean.

When he continued his silent stare at the carpet, sir pulled the underwear drawer open further to reveal Dean's secret food stash. It was crammed mainly with bits of bread with furry corners. Pie crusts had also made it in, along with the odd biscuit and cupcake. The oldest food near the back was completely green. There was a neat line from where the cardboard used to go, separating the titbits and the socks.

"Mind explaining this?"

"It's-" He paused. How does one explain away one's kleptomania to someone who's never known what it's like to have to beg for scraps? How does one convince someone that they're so fucked up, they steal in case the day comes that they are discovered for who they are: vile things that don't deserve to be fed the food of good people?

"It's the food I've stolen, sir," he finished.

"Why have you been stealing food?" The suspicion was gone, replaced by a confusion that mirrored Dean's own. He was a bad person. That's why he stole. Pretty fucking obvious.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Mr Winchester was too lost in his own nightmare to hear the apology. "Oh God, have we not been giving you enough to eat? Oh Lord, I'm so sorry, Dean." Sir's words quickened as he leaned forward to clasp his shoulder.

Dean hadn't meant to flinch. He really hadn't.

His hand slid into his left pocket. The memories he'd spent the last three months running from resurfaced at sir's words like bubbles that refuse to be trapped.

_Mr Pyper's hand reaches forward and drags him from the bin by the shoulder, where he's been caught in his illicit act._

_"Stealing from good, honest people, are we?"_

_The belt is unclasped. There's no fanfare. He just leans against the cream worktop and works on not letting a sound escape his mouth._

_"Do we not give you enough to eat?"_

_He nods mutely. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the question, considering that this was the third day he's had to watch the family eat and then throw the food away because Kate had lost her phone and found the perfect scapegoat in him. It was the damn smell coming from the bin, as tempting as a hot water bottle on a midwinter's night, that drove him to it. _

_"Then why do you do it?" He can feel the spittle land on his neck as sir roars. "Maybe it's because all you are is a dirty, little, whore." Each word at the end is accompanied by a strike. Just as the white pain starts receding to a dull ache from one blow, the next blow lands._

_His mind wanders. He'll have to think of some way to sneak some Dettol for the welts. Infections are a bitch. Maybe a couple of painkillers, though that may be too much. He can't help but feel this whole punishment is pointless; he still thinks of stealing, just the objectives have changed._

_It finally comes to an end and the belt is reattached._

_"What do you say?"_

_He stands there. He may have been reduced to eating from bins and taking shit from anyone anywhere, but he won't say it._

_The slap comes hard and fast. He suppresses a grin. Mr Pyper's slipped up and hit him where the bruises show. Nice to be the one getting on someone else's nerves for a change._

_The next words wipe the smirk right off his face. "Perhaps we should take you back to your father to learn some manners," sir looks into his eyes, watches as terror fills them._

_"Thank you," he croaks._

_"Better."_

Dean looked up from the floor to see Mr Winchester looking as guilty as an adulterer caught in the act.

"Oh God, that's it, isn't it? We've been starving our own kid and we didn't even know about it!"

"No, no sir. Storing food's just a habit I picked up over the years. I just used to take things from my plate and keep them here in case things ever got, well, bad and I've have to go a few days without." Dean paused, wanting nothing more than to stop Mr Winchester, who had shown more kindness than he'd ever deserved, feeling guilty. "I've not actually had to eat any of it while I've been here. You've never let me be hungry."

Relief and concern flooded the older man's face. "Things will never get bad, as you put it, here, son. You don't have to store food away like this."

"I was just getting rid of it when you came." Dean muttered, hating the way Mr Winchester used the word 'son'. Sam, with his bright, hazel eyes and innocent soul, was their son. Dean was merely their charity case.

"Okay then, I'll get rid of it with you. We don't need to tell Jane about this. She'll be hurt at the thought either of her sons felt she'd ever not feed them. Besides," sir picked up a particularly dark and blotchy ball, one of the first pieces of bread Dean had snuck up, "you didn't actually plan on eating any of this, did you?"

Dean shrugged. "I've eaten worse." It was easy, really. Block your nose, chew quickly, and swallow. Done.

_Of course, nausea and the runs follow soon after._

Mr Winchester pursed his lips and tightened his grip on the lump. "We should have just gone to the police about the Pypers."

Dean shook his head.

The only policeman Dean had ever known was a man named Terry. A man with rough hands and a thing for virgin children. He remembered that one time when he'd grown a pair and tried to get away, a foolhardy escape plan spurred by some stupid lecture at school about being brave. He'd run into the police station, breath hitching, hope rising, only to have it crumble to pieces as he caught sight of Terry's shark-like smile. He'd spent that night crying, convinced he'd never be able to sit comfortably in a chair again. The police were just as bad as everyone else.

"I know, you said, you don't trust them," sir sighed and dragged a hand over his face. "Anyway, any time you feel hungry, you just come tell one of us or help yourself to something. Just tell us if the supplies start getting a little low so we can buy some more."

Dean wondered which angel must be watching over him to allow filth like him to share a roof with men like the one stood in front. He felt his eyes prickle a little as he asked, "why?"

"Huh?" Mr Winchester continued to examine the food specimen in his hand with disgust.

"Why are you guys being so nice?" Dammit, his voice didn't just break there. It was just a cold. In the middle of July.

He looked up then, pity lacing his hazel eyes. "You're our son, Dean, and we refuse to treat you any different from Sa-"

"But I'm not!" The adolescent blinked rapidly, determined not to prove himself deserving of the man's pity, "I'm not your son and I never will be. I'm just some kid you think you're doing some karma-improving act with by saving."

Normally, Dean would have liked to see an adult be scalded by the truth, but here, sir's arching brows and rueful smile shot a pang of guilt through him.

_He offers you food and you're a bitch to him. Ever considered showing some fucking gratitude?_

"I didn't mean that." Dean gulped and caught sight of those hurt eyes again. "M'sorry, I don't know, sometimes I'm just left wondering if this isn't all some sort of joke." He shrugged, trying to ignore the urge to shudder at the thought of what he was dangerously close to thinking of as his family and home being some kind of sick mind game. It had to be, right? What kind of whackadoodle crazies take a random kid into their home and treat them like their own? The Pypers, he got. These people though… when would their patience end?

He braced himself for a sad smile followed by 'I guess you should probably just get your things and go now.' He deserved it and they deserved better.

It never came.

Instead, Mr Winchester sat down, cross-legged, on the floor. "If you don't see us as your family, that's totally fine. Hell, I don't think I'd want a sleep-inducing banker for a dad or a car obsessed maths teacher for a mum either. The Simpsons loving, Led Zeppelin hating younger brother might be alright though," said sir, with a wan smile.

Dean smiled back as he recalled Sam's recent threat in the car that went along the lines of 'If anyone plays Houses of the Holy one more time, so help me God, I'm going to replace the cassette player with a CD player and make you all listen to Taylor Swift.'

"Anyway, my point is, you don't have to love us. That's your choice to make and we've no right to force you to care about us. But neither can you stop us from caring about you. We see you as our son and that is final." He spoke softly as Dean, like a prepubescent girl, tried furiously to keep the tears at bay. "Are we okay now?"

Wondering once again whether it'd be foolish to allow himself a little hope, the boy let the warmth of the words flow over him. Even if all of this had to come to an end, he would be happy it happened. The memory of once being up to someone's standards would be enough.

"Hey, are we good now?" Mr Winchester pressed.

"Yes, sir."

"You know, I always feel ten years older when you address me like that," said Mr Winchester, as he pulled out the drawer completely and started walking towards the bin.

Forcing a grin, Dean emptied the rubbish into it and helped slot the box back into its grooves. They then walked down to dinner, both knowing he'd not be sneaking anything up in his shirt this time.

"Thank you," said Dean.

He might have been living with a family of whackadoodle crazies, but at least here his gratitude was heartfelt.


End file.
